I am the troubled spirits
Running around the ocean bed
Looking to be freed.
I am the whispers
Flirting mid air with a mild breeze
Tell me how not to freeze.
I am the rebellion
Fighting against the norm
As many yearn for such freedom.
I am the pain
Constantly screaming inside
While everyone is busy looking side to side.
I am the fence
Scaling the boundaries put in place
Masking the emotions on the face.
I am the passion
Divinely boiling deep within
Igniting sensual tension under the skin.
I am the wind
Scattering every spoken word
Beyond its intended home.
Writing poetry/prose is becoming a task. One that requires my attention centred in a single piece and for someone looking to silence louder voices, I am struggling to channel my alpha voice in a flowing rhythm. The above piece took days.
On one hand the writing feels like it's improving but on the other, I feel like I am losing my grip on saucy stanzas. Who knew even poetry transitions? That poet take breaks. That sometimes they can't make sense of the words they painfully birth.
