I consider myself a poet.

Yet I've never written one.

In my head I'm the best;

Yet, I've not won. Not once. Not now. Maybe not ever.

 

I wish to learn to conduct my feelings.

Through this pen and onto the page.

Like passengers on a train:

Shaken into a box to be put away.

 

Dated, signed and sent.

Now poised, waited for the profit to return.

Poised, like a prophet waiting to return.

Yet, shackled in my own mind, by my own hand.

 

I lock the cuff and turn the key.

Turning head to shed a tear.

Woe is me – why do I lock myself so?

Chained passion. Imprisoned dreams.

 

I'm geared for this life;

It's the shape of my organs.

Yet I've never put in the time.

To sit down and put this pen, to paper. To put this mind at ease, safer.

 

But it still keeps happening.

All on its own.

Like a dream with a planned course:

Remember: don't rush.

 

I need to relax.

Peel back this scalp.

Lie down.

Let this brain breathe.

 

Choked up in a room of smoke:

Afraid of what's outside - 

Detesting external reality.

Like a poison designed to break mine.

 

Loud voices threaten with no direction.

A soul is crushed regardless.

Blinded eyes can't make sense,

Of this overexposed world of colour and pain.

 

Take a chance to breathe

This fresh air;

This soul food.

Give it time

 

Let it grow.