PRISONER OF POETRY
PRISONER OF POETRY
Is it me in this verse, a strange insight for sure
As it is someone who I don’t really recognise
Am I writing these words, or someone inside
If so, who might be playing the role of a guide
And don’t be too hasty in saying that it’s wise
As if it is encouraged, it will create even more
So, do I have any remaining control of words
Or now, a helpless prisoner of poetry and lost
Could it be a monster that I somehow released
Or that crazy idea that I thought was deceased
Allowing my creativity to dominate at any cost
Not even free to separate the whey from curds
The stanzas and lines do paint a strange picture
As the person in these verses can’t really be me
It’s my hand that appears to be gripping the pen
I should try closing my eyes and counting to ten
And can’t even walk away sane from this fantasy
Now bound by metaphor and subject to stricture
The poem is done, yet it describes someone new
As if I’m in a whole new and different dimension
An exposed inner self, that I never knew existed
Perhaps all this time, a side of me I just resisted
But I just have to stop this to relieve the tension
And I must look deeper inside, to see if it’s true
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