to my favourite poet

In the twilit dancer's night
We had our first creative fight,
You said you lived wholly in poetry
In a world of verbs, rhymes and metaphorical signs,
Immediately, I disagreed
With what I perceived to be
An extreme philosophy.

I attempt daily to tread, a wire-fine line
Between a lonely word-filled world and reality.
Writing poems every once in a while
And hunting for the middle ground, whatever that means:
Directions/suggestions on a postcard please?
I keep a check on my tendency
To be dramatic, frantic, manic even.

As afore-stated:
A kaleidoscope hides inside my head
There shards of colour live,
Behind temples - varying roads exist
And if I lose my grip
It will be my sanity I kiss
Goodybe, on the swirling hallucinogenics
Of this almighty, inward sky.

So ... I require
8 hours sleep,
Several long, brisk walks
Per week,
And a balance between
The words and
The ordinary world.

I know what my souls needs,
I am the practical, pragmatic poet
And so I dutifully plant the seeds
Water it, daily,
With mental preparation,
Exercise, always checking
That I'm on the right side
Of the invisible line.

Engaged, but disengaged
Enough to create
It's an art in itself to find
This hidden shelf
Of balance,
All the way back in the dark
Of my bizarre little brain.

Somehow, running, walking, yoga
All of this. Has become integral
To my mental health
As I strive each moment
To no longer torture myself.