Title: Writing poetry
It comes to me with the rain,
Blown in by the harsh west wind
And as the heavy grey clouds move,
Palpitating like jellyfish,
I taste it on my tongue.
It falls heavy with the raindrops,
But defying gravity,
It escapes and flies away,
Through the window and into my brain.
I'm seized by an urge,
Uncontrollable and wild,
Fizzling like electricity,
Sparking wires in my mind.
Breathing deeply, I tear a sheet from my notebook:
Crisp and clean, like whitewashed stone,
I taint it with sea-blue ink.
It creeps across the page;
Or sometimes running a marathon.
I feel the power in my fingers,
I'm a tyrant: merciless and cruel.
There is no fate, no God except for me.
With my pen, my instrument of destiny,
I create whole lives and genealogies.
Plucked from the throbbing, thriving pit
That is my imagination.
Years from now, perhaps,
People will read this and see,
A hidden meaning in the poetry,
An unintentional metaphor or simile.
For now, I write only to please me;
It's a release of emotions that sets me free,
But a selfish, egocentric activity.
But then again I might decide
That all I've written is nonsense and lies,
And so it will end up on a rubbish tip
A scrap of paper fluttering in the wind.
Words flying back to where they came from
A poem about poetry.