I can't make myself write;
Sometimes I wish I knew,
But I feel this need to write,
So what can I do?
"It's a talent that needs to be channeled,
Not vented," you say.
Easy observation from where you sit,
You've never felt this way.
I can't summon the words
And contemplate their place on the page.
My writing isn't a product of my own skill,
It's an outpouring of love, sorrow, fear, joy or rage.
Channeled, not vented,
Like water or air . . .
How exactly words come to the page
I don't care.
I don't see it as talent
To entertain or enrich lives.
What it is, in all honesty,
Is how a poet survives.
Age 26
Sometimes I wish I knew,
But I feel this need to write,
So what can I do?
"It's a talent that needs to be channeled,
Not vented," you say.
Easy observation from where you sit,
You've never felt this way.
I can't summon the words
And contemplate their place on the page.
My writing isn't a product of my own skill,
It's an outpouring of love, sorrow, fear, joy or rage.
Channeled, not vented,
Like water or air . . .
How exactly words come to the page
I don't care.
I don't see it as talent
To entertain or enrich lives.
What it is, in all honesty,
Is how a poet survives.
Age 26