One spin to the right or the left drafts a poem or a story
Many live in these, many die, many ponder, many ignore
Yet the one that scribbled has been in each of those states
Often the days pass, in solitude, alone but not in lone
Where a scribe could question reality, often to be disconnected
Yet in a paradox of being and not, alive and dead, happy and sad
I have been in all of those phases too, with you and without
The past is like a Ouija board, littered with letters of thoughts
Mine is mined, rigged to explode into my face at any instance of reaching
There is no haunt that seems unknown, even the ghosts have become cohorts
They would haunt me then, by now all I have is their company, and empathy
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