I am the troubled spirits Running around the ocean bed Looking to be freed.
I am the whispers Flirting mid air with a mild breeze Tell me how not to freeze.
I am the rebellion Fighting against the norm As many yearn for such freedom.
I am the pain Constantly screaming inside While everyone is busy looking side to side.
I am the fence Scaling the boundaries put in place Masking the emotions on the face.
I am the passion Divinely boiling deep within Igniting sensual tension under the skin.
I am the wind Scattering every spoken word Beyond its intended home.
Writing poetry/prose is becoming a task. One that requires my attention centred in a single piece and for someone looking to silence louder voices, I am struggling to channel my alpha voice in a flowing rhythm. The above piece took days.
On one hand the writing feels like it's improving but on the other, I feel like I am losing my grip on saucy stanzas. Who knew even poetry transitions? That poet take breaks. That sometimes they can't make sense of the words they painfully birth.
