Sometimes I want to be free from the shackles of rhyme,
Since the words flow longer and faster tonight,
Its like resurfacing after being under for some time,
But to break the habit- I don't have the might.
Isn't it queer to write about writing?
Its judgmental somehow, and to me that's frightening,
What if I lose the ability someday?
What would I do if the lines don't stay?
For its one thing to know your passion is well,
But truly another to master the spell,
There are pages and pages of lines unread,
An abundance of thoughts silenced, unsaid,
It overwhelms me, truly, at times its hard,
When all of life's burdens at once leave me scarred,
And I turn to a quill and ink for support,
I pour out my fears to a lifeless consort.
Its a torrent unleashed, when the dam breaks,
The floodgates are open, I mustn't drown in the aches,
As wave after wave of the ocean in my thoughts,
Is out in the open, now forever it rots.
But it leaves in its wake, a solemn serenity,
Once I've written enough to drift from my identity,
And I hide the journal in the very back of the drawer,
It'll wait for me loyally, till I want to write more.
