This poem was written whilst I was reading the novel Nausea by Satre and it is fairly abstract and has different meanings for different people. For me, it is a treatise on the nature of the mind, my mind as a writer. To you it may be competely different...

Across the misted lakes of the mind,
Down the path of pitch,
Up the slopes of a misanthrope,
There a certain hitch.

Splattered in the psyche,
Of every ordinary man,
Straddled with existence,
A sentimental sense.

I am here, the mind calls bashed,
And here life is sane,
Though the insane do remain,
Among the otherwise inane.

For all who think,
who know their mind,
understand that love is divine,
simple yet complex.

This is the rub, of all who think,
that the mind’s creative level stink,
for those who feel a throb of pain,
slithering in their squalor.

This pain is known,
by all who know,
as creative liberties go,
as a subtle show of attention.

We all are novelists, recounting the past,
feeling nostalgia hit the gas,
but for those who think abroad,
are simply known as poets.

As for the simple man,
we write about injustice,
knowing of the entity know as revenge,
being the libertines that all men are.

And as men goes, for those who know,
we write about love and woman,
feeling a sentiment of lost love,
hang heavily in our heart.

For the simple woman,
they write about love
,knowing of the ultimate shove,
feeling that broken heart.

And as woman have the right to know,
they write about broken hearts,
feeling those broken nights spent in limbo,
healing and healing with their own power.

I am the shadow of the writers pain,
and I know of simple pleasures,
so let us regain, now dear friend
,our own creative abilities.