Poetry's Medium

Is poetry the mirror that forces me to stare into the eyes of my subconscious thoughts?

Or am I cursed with the chaotic emotion that poetry entails?

Do these pulls toward passion infect my arms because I am holding them open,

Or am I contaminated with the fervor that my imagination spells out?

Because I have allowed such a language to flow through my body,

Is this a meaningless craving that will soon pass?

Must I be a medium for passion to pump through -

Into my heart, consuming my soul -

And when it is done, once the poem is beautiful and complete -

The zeal that possessed me leaves. And there I am,

Surrounded by remnants of the passionate hurricane that tore through me

And exited from my hand.