Monday, November 10, 2008
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.