People
sometimes ask me why I write poetry. A fair question especially when I
contemplate the time I spend mulling over my thoughts. Yes I must
spend, minutes, hours, days even, swirling thoughts around in my psyche,
feeling their energy flow this way and that. Sometimes its good energy and it
resonates with a lulling harmonious rhythm that sings to my soul. At other
times it is not so good energy. It thrashes around my inner house leaving emotional
devastation in its wake. The mind
monkeys enjoy the feast. They love a good story another drama that will perpetuate
the cycles of unhealthy behaviour.
I
guess the act of writing allows the energy to flow, to move from that void
within where it has been spiralling round. It enables it to flow outward. To
take form. No longer lost within those dark depths the words can now dance
across the page. Black on white, darkness finally meeting light as a poem is
born. Birthed by the poet; the midwife of words.
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