I am bursting at times,

like an over-filled balloon

or a rotten piece of fruit.


This thing with words just loads me up

and I have to let it out, let it go,

release the inner pain and pleasure

of what it is I want to say.


What matters for me is the release:

not even whether it is liked

or whether it has anything 

profound to say.


Do I have a dis-ease?



Perhaps I should take myself off

to the poetry priest and get her

to exercise this demon of words 

that is possessing me.


Yet, if she did her job well,

and I was no longer bursting,

where shall I be?


I am a human filled up:

possessed, strange,

with an ancient madness


So, in writing this verse,

far from feeling all released 

I am, I know,

bursting still.