By JM
Date: 5 August 1998

Caught In the Web of My Prose

Beautiful words spill from
the stiletto of my poison pen
onto virgin, white paper...filling it completely.
Certainly I could not have written them,
but they are there, in my handwriting.
Day after day this happens for nearly a year,
my poetry journal the trusty guardian
of each mind-numbing emotion I have felt ~~
committed to a page in the time of my life.
My words will live outlive my body.
Like my children, they are my legacy.
Of this, I am certain.
It's one year later now...
I have ceased.
I cannot write anything.
Not even the simplest of rhymes.
No words on paper.  Again.  Again.
My heart is carefree now,
no longer heavy with ache.
It sings.  It soars untethered to pain.
I fear I cannot write unlessit hurts...
the grief, that slice of hell on Earth.
However... I may be wiser, for this I know:
I would rather be a "poetic mute" than to
live one more day in my old life...
the one that brought those words to
paper with its despair.