What sorrows do you hide behind your eyes?
Come, tell me what you’ve tasted of despair
Cast off the smile you wear as a disguise
Let loose your demons and let down your hair
What curses have you bellowed at the sky?
Come, tell me all your hatred, I implore you
For I will never tell you not to cry
I will adjure you: drive your rage before you!
What passions have you buried in your heart?
Come, tell me what you’ve tasted of desire
Release all that’s been tearing you apart
Forget your shame, go set the world on fire
Instead of getting lost in devastation
Let anguish be the source of your creation
My life right now should contain more sleep and less writing of poetry. But how can I deny the words their manifestation on the paper when writing feels more like channeling than creative work? I didn't ask inspiration to force itself upon me, but there I am, wide awake with an exquisite line of verse I've been ruminating on for months finally finding its company among syllable after delicious syllable.
It's not always like this, mind you. Most of the time I have to fight for inspiration and trudge through the marshes of wording and revision just like anyone else. But sometimes the spark of creation ignites my soul so thoroughly I have to scrounge something together from what's inside me lest I burst. While I hold a deep love for music, creating even the simplest melodies is quite beyond me, and painting I gave up seeking to master a long time ago. Words, however, I've made into my element, and now I find them summoning me more often than the other way around.
I might be a tiny bit obsessed, but what of it? Isn't life worth a little pain and exhaustion when there is art on the line?
Love and blank verse-compulsion,