A poet’s plight

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. — Robert Frost

Tormented by prose,
there is no repose until composed
Stowaway brainchildren shoplifting daydreams
pilfering notions and whims
Tinkering with mental trinkets to keep themselves amused

Fractured figments infiltrate slumber
Tirelessly inscribing, reciting
depriving sleep
Nocturnal visions usurped by urgent soliloquies

Desperation demands, commands
purging the pangs fermenting my soul
Bloodthirsty, I breach, leach
the clamors tearing my heart asunder

Revelations outcry, testify so that I
may be shanghaied from my purgatory

Visceral scripts cast off clouds of gloom
until there is no longer any room for agony or anger
Allowing me to breathe, bathe
under sun-soaked lapis skies
where tears have ceased to linger

And sometimes — in due time
I bide my time
while inspirations ignite and speculations spark
lighting fire to introspection

Librettos written
Choral hymns sung
Declaring sacred secrets
and contemptuous contemplations

Harmonious musings
Discordant discourse
Communally coexist
Live together
Lie together
Symbiotic scribbles
Sprawled, scrawled
Laid down on the page
Relinquished to the reader
for final judgment

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Originally published on iPoetry @Medium.com