I hang on a cliff edge wanting to let go
And holding firm to draw so tight, my life
I would not let go of grip to fall
I yearn to unload these thoughts
They sit with burst on my mind
Begging to come out and be heard
Read, noted, examined, re-examined
And be understood in context by so few
The rest just blaspheme, leave them out
Though in the same light, lone candles, shadows of day
I fear what would manifest out on paper like scripture
When I open these taps of my mind to draw fluid thoughts
What is poetry to a poet I ponder
An open book, abstract dairy of the very private
Or creativity with words from the subconscious
Half the time I am at a loss to know
Half the time I wonder if writings hold any meaning
What is poetry to a poet, yet each time I write, I write
I'm sure yours are the three answers. Good one to tackle.
ReplyDeletea good questions, indeed. I suppose as many poets as many views on this. For me, I know, it's the uncounscious working while I'm conscious. I really doubt I write my poems "intentionally". In fact, it is very often that I start writing with a certain idea in mind and the result is far from it. Your poem is wonderfully-written and the images are excellent. I enjoyed it very much!
ReplyDeleteBest, M.