Can’t sit still, can’t pay attention,

horses couldn’t draw or quarter me

from any hyperfixation

I write a poem I’m convinced flies;

so sweetly proud of

my messy mud pies

Ideas are birds high aloft on the breeze

No words can catch them,

none so paltry as these.

I fade for hours in a thought like a ghost

but can’t bring anything back

without it turning to smoke

before I can solidify its abstract essence

into anything

that would make any sense.

My options are limited at closing the gap

between the creativity I long for

and the mediums I lack.

Writing is all I’ve ever had

and my ADHD has robbed me of that.

It’s a kite on a string

sailing farther away

high aloft on the breeze.

Goddammit, I want it back