My pen might touch this page,

pouring emotions into ink,

letting words out from their cage

to form thoughts i’d never think.

Do I need to lose my mind

to write meaning between these lines?

Or force images into words, entwined 

with similes, stanzas, and silly rhymes?

No, i think i’d rather close an ear

to what a poem should be. 

Some images were made for us to hear,

and some sounds were made for us to see.

But why do we place so much trust

in our senses, when they’re all we will ever own? 

The colour green may not be green, but it must

be - if green is the colour you’ve always known