No thought goes into my poetry. No creative or logical force guides my hand. All my poetry is made of is pretty words and a single, simplistic, forceful emotion. When I try and use my brain all I get out is long winded, strained, literary garbage. The only way I can produce something I am eventually proud of is to find a feeling, isolate it, and write down anything -anything- that comes to mind. I can always sort it out later, and often I don't need to, but if I don't wring every last drop of emotion on the form of ink onto my paper before the burning sensation in my heart subsides, that's an emotion lost forever. A feeling unique and never to be felt again. My writing allows me to get it all out of me before it escapes into the recesses of my heart, only to fester and rot. Any thought in my poetry is not poetry at all. It's intellectual trash.