When Poetry Lacks Honesty

How many times must I write my way out of a labyrinth? I thought I had done this before but it never suffices. The feeling inside me never ceases. Time and time again I pick up a pen to scratch words out onto paper but the itch never stops.

Only now, something feels different. Something’s off, askew, out of balance; and I’m not quite sure how to place this feeling. It’s a lackluster sense of words with no meaning. A sign too far away to read clearly. 

Never conveying any specific meaning. I set it down. I set everything down. And I feel my world start to cave in around me. 

Eyeing my escape, I run straight and fast into the wall in front of me, blindly, with no obligation to the world around me. But this isn’t the high I seek. I never wanted “the calm after the storm”; I crave the lightning.

Storms settle my capricious soul. Swept up in the thunder and heavy clouds I find my peace of mind. Because here, I can let my soul scream with no fear of being heard. 

Thunder drowns out my yells and shouts of obscenities. Where most people run for cover, I unleash my loudest thoughts. Not a poetic mixture of rain drops and tears, but a chaotic combination of my heart and a hurricane.

Yet here I am. Trapped in a place where it never rains enough to keep my mind’s fire at bay. So the shouts in my head never cease but are dulled by the ever-flowing ocean of ink spilling from my veins.

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