These days, the Words bubble through me, not stopping long in my mind. They disturb the waters of my thoughts without breaking the surface of Poetry. No matter how hard I try, I cannot catch them and bend them to my will, instead they run, swiftly gone, never to be reclaimed.
Of late the Gift has been gone from me, the ability to let these flittering words flow onto paper. My mind can no longer articulate them into proper sentences and structures. So long I have been without that now the Words have returned, I no longer remember how.
Too many days, the Words have been bludgeoned into a guarded corner of my mind. Too long I have felt such pressure, the suppresion of emotion, the oppresion of my heart and the depression of my Writer's soul. One such as I is not meant to live like this, to hold back the Words, to not let them free. For now I have let the Words back into my Heart, my mind cannot deal with them.
For what is Poetry? Is it form, is it theme? But what is form? How shall I use it? A rhyme, a rhythm or a verse free of chains? And theme, theme, theme, you confound me no end! What content could I possibly put into a Poem profound enough to be worthy of the Words? Is it lament or praise, joy or sorrow, the garden of glory or the pit of despair?
In my mind it is all confused, I no longer feel the confidence of a Poet. How can I write that which I know not? But who can claim to "know" Poetry; to have met that divine being which leads us to joy? Who has reached that sweet Nirvana? Not I, not I, not I.
The Words still bubble, my Heart aches to let them loose, the blood quakes in my veins from the force of that longing. And yet my Mind stands in the way, refusing to quell the confusion and bring order to the thoughts. Art is gone until I free it from myself.
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