Highway

I am realizing that my writing

is a lot like my mind.

There's more of it

than I thought there was.

It's not organized by structure

so much as it is by pattern...

I think.

I have no idea

how to make sense of it all

let alone how to arrange it

into any sort of sense

for anyone else.

And the poet in me

of course says

"screw everyone else"

but what's the point

in being able to speak

if we have to keep secrets?

So here's this huge mass of words

and images,

greater than the sum of its parts

but nothing more

than highway confessions of a madman.