When I was but thirteen or so... I went into a golden land, how took me by the hand.

One way or another,
The moment permitting,
Able to say what I think at times,
And otherwise saying it poorly and jumbled,
I keep witing without wanting to,
As if writing weren't something that happened to me
Like the sun outside shining on me.

I try saying what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try fitting words to the idea
Without going down a corridor
Of thought to find words.

I don't always succeed in feeling what I know
I should feel.
My thought swims the river only quite slowly,
Heavily burdened by clothes men have made it wear.
Or not have wear, I do not know ?