A cry for help.

Lost in transit, my thoughts start to race.
From my mind to my soul, time is replaced.
With a pause, time stops,
I'm overcome with rhyme.
Not much matters, upon paper, The creative lines.
Stress induced artwork, you like to read.
My lost sense of sanity, your words plant the seed.
A mad man's nonsensical,  starts to take form,
Tight scrambled nonsense,  from my mind is torn.
Your words spark pain, which triggers a thought.
When I'm hurt, I should write, or so I'm taught.
Hurt feelings inspire, in a much painful way.
My pain becomes literature,  you cling to what I say.
Deep seeded cuts, of the verbal sort,
Cause and effect, my art is my retort.
Your anger inspires pain, that I can't deal with,
My depression makes me write, a much sought after gift.
Sometimes I don't want it, I get lost in myself.
I'd rather stuff it, upon that shelf.
Leave it for later, not to speak of.
But then I transform, to the person I was.
Locked deep inside, this mind of mine.
Unable to relate, to get through to my wife.
Close to losing you, is where I was.
You asked me why I bottled, I said just because.
I don't want to lose you, so I'd rather talk,
To stay my wife, will my writings be lost?