I could scream, but it wouldn’t be enough.
It would not exorcise my demons,
nor would it bring me any comfort.
I would not feel any better for it,
but my throat might get sore.
I could cut, and the endorphins would rush,
then I would feel ashamed,
and have to hide the scars,
and more would certainly follow,
it’s not a real solution.
I could cry, but I can’t,
even though I badly want to,
for reasons I don’t comprehend.
It would feel good, and sad,
to cry out these emotions.
I could drink, but I’d lose control,
my wife would likely leave,
and I wouldn’t blame her one bit.
Drinking is bad news for me,
at least I finally saw that.
I could run, but I’m trapped at home,
with two young needy children,
who can’t be simply left alone.
I love them both so much,
but they are also my wardens.
I could play a game, but I’ll lose interest,
nothing I haven’t seen before.
I’ll putter for a few minutes,
then turn on a rerun,
and try to think of something else.
So I write, because I can create,
because it gives me some control,
it unclogs my clogged mind,
and I can do it most of the time,
It will have to do for now.