They come to me in my sleep, patterns I cannot describe,

And set my pen to racing, filling the empty page with words,

I do not think, I just write, these words form of their own accord,

I do not write poetry, poetry writes me,

Powered by my soul and mind, my feelings lie scrawled across the page,

Picked apart by vultures who try to find the hidden meanings,

As for that, well, if there is one, then I wouldn't know,

I do not write of that, I write of what I expereince and feel,

Of everyday things in my own perspective,

Like a passing conversation, a glance, smile,

My soul absorbs these things, and to it my heart does fly,

Enveloping myself in it's arms, I have no need for a lover,

For poetry is all that I need, but even as I say this I wait for you,

My words forming the silent plea across the empty expanse of lines,

Blue and white, perfectly straight, release my thoughts upon them,

They are my instruments, my weapons,

With this I can defend myself against the insults of others,

I just feel different than you do, and I am not an Ice Maiden,

You're just not the one,

I am complex and I am different, but aren't all insane poets eccentric?

To be a poet you must be insane!

How else could you write such feelings without expereincing them to the fullest,

A lovers touch is transformed into silk upon satin,

And soft lips are changed into heady wine, from which you drink deeply and fully,

This callous world you must leave behind, and roam the world of psycotics,

Their world is the expereinces you crave, a world of pure and true emotions, clean and unbridled,

A tourant of scenery and people, a place to get swept away,

A place to grab hold of life, of colors reaching out to you,

And you hold them in your grasp, a world of pure delight,

Of nightmares and fairytales, the experience to the fullest,

So I ask you, are poets insane?

-By Jessica Holder (aka Christine Connla)