Poetry

Poetry arises from that spring where pleasure meets pain.

It is the art of expression which the poet cannot quite express to any one person, and does so to everyone in turn.

Poets do not seek happiness or satisfaction or love or paradise. Neither are they the harbingers of rue, married to melancholy thoughts of yesteryear; placeless, baseless slaves of catastrophe. They are seekers of the unsought; the ones who worship the shadow in between night and day.

I cannot explain the euphoria a poet experiences when before him appears a muse, and gently picks up his quill from its forgotten ink pot. I think it's like first love, but I'm not sure.

But the muse is more fastidious than a Goddess; her favor is varied and rare. Sometimes it cannot be counted upon.
Sometimes you must write because there is no one there to listen.

Sometimes you're only company through an unending night is that sheet of tattered white paper that's decorating your broken desk.

Sometimes you write because your tears look so much better on a page.

Sometimes, you just. Write.

And you waltz with silence in a bough of bliss,
And you lie beneath skies of Valhalla nights
And you  sing along to a forgotten song,
And realize when you open your eyes,

Poetry is you.

But are you a poet?