Compass

Caverned deep in my skull,
Where natural thoughts Dwell,
Is a pool of thought,
My true directional plot.

A bubble of emotion,
Will surface a small stem,
To pluck out a feeling,
And pursue my hearts pleading.

Tho, as of lately,
The depth is lengthy,
It swirls and churns,
Its production, they're words.

Words that jumble,
They confuse and mumble,
Bitter and blunt,
I'm at a loss of what they want.

The surface, it steams,
It's lost it's gleam,
A smokey smog behind my eyes,
A reflection of my soul's humid cries...

In the mix of it all,
The solution to balance all,
An additive of peace,
To flatten out the crease.

No patience should be given,
I need to find that next stem,
Submerge the depths of my passion,
And form a floating needle of direction.