The loonier you get,
the more you write.
The popping flames flare
in your wobbly, burning head
igniting each random word.
Your brain catches fire
and becomes a furnace.
Into it, you heap more words,
make it blaze
ever brighter, ever hotter.
Then you reach
into its glowing coals,
snatch out some
untempered syllables
and beat them
with the hammer
of your imagination.
From this raw molten stuff,
you forge the shape and form
of these poems that tell you:
you are still alive,
you are still here,
you are still you.
It is a process
as simple and complicated
as madness.
- mce
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