Friends there is a Time when a Writer thinks to hell with it.

Friends there is a Time when a Writer thinks
to hell with it.  Why is my Head constantly work-
ing without Un Fin ongoing Poems? What can't
I live like the Rest of the People out There
who drive down Streets that to me are Visions.
I Hear Voices of People that are Made
Up in my Mind on RollercoasterWheels.
Why must it be me who can NEver be Still?
But Writer this was not for You, it is
for my Reader.  Reader, if you are still There,
I have so much I want to say to you Why?
do I insist? Why not Submit to Inner Peace
which Believe Me This Kind is SInful--
In My Lethargy these Sounds become Me
and I become Them. I Float up the Walls
Transform to a Building for there's no End
in Sight for these Thoughts and Words and Feelings
Reader, I've lived a Moment with You.
I will never Forget its Impression on Me.
When you Return it will Increase in Size.
Only when we are Face to Face as Now.
and my Voice Stumbles, do I prosodize.