Writing...

Who knows what it is to write?
Or where the words come from?
And why sometimes they overwhelm,
And sometimes never come?

How can I tell about a place
The world has never seen,
And make it so believable
It could have been a dream?

Where do I find the strange ideas
That fly into my head?
Why do they always come to me,
Not someone else instead?

What happens to the written word
That makes it breathe and live?
What makes a character remain
Inside my mind, captive?

When I hear unreal voices
And see people in my mind,
No one thinks anything is wrong
In ways they can define.

Yet if another person showed
These eccentricities,
Their friends would find someone whose job
Was in psychiatry.

What differentiates the two?
Why do they think I’m sane?
Or am I really?  Is it just
An act I always feign?