Poem of My Ghost [Posthumous Poetry]

I once started a current,
Or perhaps touched an undercurrent,
Slipping into a flow,
That lay deep within my soul,

It started slow, picking up pace,
Racing ahead, driven by rage,
A tiny snowball growing into an avalanche,
It pushed my mind into a powerful launch,

Words've poured forth ever since,
Like water from a leaking tap,
A poem at the slightest nudge,
Of emotion, suggestion or a pointless grudge,

So much so that I swim in words,
Flying with them like light birds,
Sticking my head above it in vain,
All in an attempt to stay sane,

My solitude's filled with thought,
Words bubbling on their top,
The nothingness of my insides forming a mouth,
To whisper words for my pen to note,

Ghosts of words fill my prive,
To strike a balance for which I often strive,
Rising and falling between waves that're ebbing,
Each time producing a fine piece of writing,

My mind seldom sleeps, as I turn on my bed,
Words chaining to each other, weaving a web,
And if some day I die, midway thro' a poem,
My ghost might rise to finish it, carried by the momentum.