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