Before I write
A poem about the dark side of the creative mind’s eye.
I sit staring
pen poised in hand
above paper
But you would never know
looking at me
from the outside in
whether I am
sailing in seas of
heavenly inspirations or
whether I am
caught in
the waves of despair
at the mercy
of my mind’s cruelty
insisting so convincingly
that I have nothing to say
Today is the latter.
With effort, I pull myself
from dangerous waters
back to the room,
the hum of the heater,
stepping out of the
danger of my churning mind -
the white page appears again
the thoughts begin to recede
and I begin to write
With no one the wiser
no trace of
the hell I’ve been to and
back in my comfy chair
before I write.