Oftentimes, I open a blank MS Word document
or would seldom bring out a paper and pen
and stare, for minutes, or hours,
Constantly putting it aside and then opening it again
Be it the quiet of the night or the heat of the day
I answer the call whenever it comes to me
But seldom, it does so happen,
that the thoughts in my mind refuse to take shape
I’m unable to write a single letter
or I keep cancelling what I wrote, in pursuit of better words
But none come, and I wonder
did I lose the art I thought I was born with
My one gift that I neither won nor earned
but was simply bestowed upon my breaths
And that scares me, for a moment though
Because I once the words come and pass through me onto parch’
I realize I was never the writer all along
The words simply passed through me, perhaps in search of an empty soul
that wouldn’t dare to soil them, and would put them to paper pure
The writer was someone else, someone pious and pure
For it wasn’t in me to have such thoughts and words
The poetess was beautiful, unworldly, and immortal
I was but a mere mortal, scum unworthy
The words written were her doing, not mine
And on days when I couldn’t write, she was the one who had failed
Or perhaps chose not to caress me that night
Perhaps my soul wasn’t pure that night
But once she calls, it was impossible to let her be
And the guilt would kill me if I ever did ignore her,
tearing me apart, limb for limb
ripping out my heart, clutching my throat
wrestling me, till I had tears in my eyes and found respite in dreams alone
The Poetess wrote, and I found joy in her victories
And danced with her, for twas the only joy I had ever known
No mere mortal she is, but a Goddess
for she fires up the spirit
she bursts a sad rotting soul into embers of creativity
The mere brush of her hair makes a lethargic man sit up
The ashes of her doing lighten up the eyes of the deadest of people
Who praise, chant, and worship
They wish to cherish the artist, such are the customs of the world today
But in essence, the artist is I, the wielder of a pen for a flickering moment
The source is much greater, larger, grander
And in the afterglow of that spirit my soul lingers, gathering words of praise
Yet, the man receiving the praise was not the one who earned it
To the poetess goes all my glory, and from her comes more
For I will not be a poet, when I’m not writing, I’m one in this moment alone
The moment that cloaks and crafts itself upon me
And absorbs me into its own time and space
into an environment, not unlike one being created by my own words
I let lose, and flow, entering into the heavenly world
The fiery world, the calm, the anger, the sadness, the joy
the screams, the lights, the dark, and the agony
of the moment when I feel a lump in my throat and take my pen
I earn a moment of oneness with her, at-one-ment
I become, the Poetess
