My thoughts once flowed from mind to paper,
An endless and effortless river.
No conscientious planning,
Instead the piece just appeared -
A creation of my insanity.

Words materialized,
Perfect for the setting,
Ideas never came to me -
They took hold of me.
I was their slave,
Their scribe,
Their channel to creation.

In my depression I never wondered,
Where my works originated,
I was never curious,
For it seemed natural
To write without exertion.

Until a passerby on my life-long road,
Asked me how I wrote so swiftly,
How the ideas came to me.
I stopped and thought,
For the very first time.
And I was speechless to reply.

For years afterward
No writing passed my hand,
No pieces emerged unnoticed.
Until one day, I sat alone
And tried to write my mind.
It was then I realized
That my gift had gone,
And my writing came out
Staggered
And the words slipped my mind.

And never since have I
Let my feelings emerge
And consume my writing hand.
I have shut my walls
Fortified my mind
And closed off all the exits.

But the insanity is still inside.