A poem or story does not emerge
Organically
But is bled from one’s core
Wrenched from the darkness of the mind
To the surface of the page
The ink soars up through its vestibule
That can no longer contain its girth
Demanding an audience;
I am but the humble servant
Mandated to open the door.
What a simpleton to claim
“I write. It’s what I do.”
To invoke pride in an art
That affords so little control.
I do write
It’s what I’ve become
The verb of a crime
I am accomplice.
I don’t want to write sometimes
Sometimes the ink scares me
Into a silence
Brought on by sheer panic
At the thought of exposing this piece, that piece
Of my darkness to the light of day
I fear judgement will cascade upon
The façade of my jovial disposition
One will begin to question my smile
Eyes will rake through me, and know
The secrets of my universe.
The silence is tolerated,
The ink lets me win
For now.
But I am always held at the mercy of its mastery,
The ink
When trapped, it stains everything around it
Damaging without discrimination
Demanding to be released.
Struggle as I may
I resign under its reign
My challenge is accepted
But mocked
The silence is allowed just to
Humour me
Before subjugating me once more
To my place
The humble servant
Standing at the door
Awaiting instruction
Disguised as inspiration.
