When I consider how I spend my nights,
Turning down the lights, pulling down the blinds
And writing down my thoughts, as though to find
My heart exposed and pulsing, living yet
Upon the page - though in my body set,
Becoming both the organ and the grind
To free myself from all these self-made binds,
I cannot see a way in which to let
My tongue divide, my mind to split in two
And speak as both the 'you' and 'I' in turn,
And give my thoughts a time to speak, and wait,
So I might see my bindings all anew
And throw away my page; for I could learn
A way to live - though no more to create.
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