My mind is like a ball in a pinball machine, running round everywhere, being pushed by the flippers of my imagination.
Stopping occasionally at eureka moments, only too realise that there is not enough substance to remain.
Back into the flow of the game, hoping to disappear down the salubrious hole to feel that calming domain.
Just for those few seconds i feel like i'm travelling with Bob Marley on his zion train.
Then to reappear only to start again, because i'm being pulled by the weight of my inquisitive brain.
I'm up and down the keys with John Coltrane, having to deal with things you can't refrain.
Make that call, reply to the letter, so reaching the insight to write other than mundane.
Is this a poem or am i writing fiction, does it really matter it you cannot deliver that piece of description.
Me, I, go back in time and feel that guy, how can your writing reach to the sky, if you can't get into that childlike eye.
Are the rules always about Byron, Shelley and keats or can it just be possible to skip them to make myself and my writing complete.
I was here long enough to write this piece, as i sprint off in search of what could be my niche.