Harnessing Poems

I cannot write what I've not felt nor seen.

I cannot describe places I've never been to.

I cannot write what I've never lived,

I cannot write just coz there are pages to be filled.

With the stories of life and the ink of time,

Every word is etched on the pages of my mind.

Long before the pen is put to paper to write,

I've already lived through what I'm about to describe.

So every word, every rhyme, every meter, every line,

Is a measured unveiling of all that is mine.

So every one of my works is strewn with doubts.

Suppressed fears, muted shouts.

How much of me can I put out there?

How much of me am I willing to share?

Do I want to crack open this window to my mind?

Am I way too afraid of what others will find?

Words, though, forge their own path.

From my life to my mind and finally my heart.

And once they're born, they refuse to quietly die

Leaving me no choice but to give this another try.

There's something though I still know to be true,

I'll leave it here between me and you.

If all of life's experiences are fodder for my pen,

And only sorrow and pain bring it back to life again,

I'd rather just lose my words and my ink,

Than harness poems out of a life on the brink.