Within me there is a well both empty and overflowing.
There is dust, summer rain, the sound of my voice,
and the echo of others.
I often fear it isn’t poetry, only words held until
I choose to dip my pen into troubled water.
There is no way to escape breath if I choose to live.
Every poem I write resuscitates hope the journal in me
will find the soul who needs the breadcrumbs I leave for them.
Rarely can I write in rhyme because I have no talent
to not make it sound pitiful or childish.
For me it is torture, a duty I’m not qualified to perform.
Poetry is my therapy, impertinence, anger, joy.
It usually has no form, no blueprint, just ink
pulling what I see, hear, and feel to the surface.
Inspiration is as close as the cat sitting at my feet
to as far as the moon is from my window.
When I am stuck, it is because I overthink,
tie myself in a knot trying to force what should flow.
Poetry, you are life, death, the amazing space in between.
When I am lost you bring me home, comfort me,
chastise me, teach me to not just look but see,
not just hear but listen, not just hurt but heal.
©Susie Clevenger 2024
Comments
Wow, Susie! We have the same foibles and doubts, emptiness and fullness, and yet when we write with honesty, with the heart, and with that other unexplainable drive--we are poets! I adore this poem.
"Poetry is my therapy, impertinence, anger, joy.
It usually has no form, no blueprint, just ink
pulling what I see, hear, and feel to the surface." Poetry is often my therapy too, especially the poems I write only for myself, where I am MORE uninhibited. I like the idea of poetry pulling things to the surface. I feel the same. Sometimes when I begin writing, I have no idea the direction the poem will go.
Thanks for your resent visits