The Left Hand Side (Poetry)

The words I wrote yesterday barely connect —
ideas are disjointed — my other hand penned
this odd ramble of ink — all sense of it wrecked —
I’ve sifted the lines but I can’t comprehend
the point of it all or the reason I chose
these poor scraps of poetry orphaned by prose.

I find it unsettling — reading it back
another voice haunts me — insists that I look
deep in the shadows — consider the fact
peculiar thoughts fill the mind’s virtual book
and make their escape — creep across the wide page
leaving prints faint with apathy madness and rage.

I want to discard them — deny them — undo
words so unnerving that claim to be mine
I sense an alternative meaning shows through —
a rebel agenda too sly to define
that mocks me — the evidence clearly is plain —
another self lives in one half of my brain.