The work we do, us writers, isn't easy. Those words are stuck in our heads, and you can't get them out. It circles your mind, and it taunts you, reminds you, annoys you, until you put it on paper. Until you mess up a few times. And then you better it. Shaping it with your mind, not your hands. Pen or pencil, paper, wall, note card. Whatever we feel connected to.
The mind of a poet is dangerous, almost. A scary place to trespass. Because these thoughts are personal, more so than any typical thought. These are valuable,and its what you read. The final draft. Be grateful. Because to compose such beautiful words and untangle the mess of a mind is a talent. Pure talent.