It's Strange

It's strange
How poems can be so different
At different times

How words flow differently
At different hours
In different states of minds

How sentences seem more beautiful,
More passionate,
When they're created during fits of emotion or in the early hours of morning

Yet, in a calm state
The words are much more difficult
To string together elegantly

So I've just stopped trying
And let words come freely
Because they're a part of me

And you can't force the words
And you can't force my feelings
And you can't force me

I'm not sure what it is, though
Maybe the spiraling depression
Maybe the fear of death

Maybe it's everything
That just makes my words
Seem so much... clear

But I sit here
At 5:15 AM
Thinking about how much more beautiful this could have been