poetry

poetry?

so that’s what this is,

all this time

I thought it was just

schizophrenia,

quiet voices,

whispering softly

inside my head,

fragmented thoughts,

coming and going,

so much left unsaid,

must be a fine line,

perhaps the inflection

or tone;

and it comes without years of study

or warm shots of whiskey;

who would have thought it possible?

certainly not my old English teacher.

.

.