Writing

When I’m writing it’s
Like my mind is running away from me.
In a place I can’t see,

Covered in fog, blanketed from society.
Running off and saying whatever it pleases.
It does it without fear of judgment or shallow minded opinion.
It doesn’t even do it to be heard or listened to,
Just to free its self from the cage I put it in.

I write from wrong.
I read of the past.
I only know of the present.
And understand that nothing else last.

The cage door is open when I’m at the keyboard or with a pen.
My mind is free,
Off in a place where I can’t see.