The words that once filled my soul've deserted me,
Now spilled onto my sheets of paper, that lie before thee,
Or forgotten by my blessed memory -
Lock'd in that keyless chamber where some thoughts might still lie,
Waiting in vain until they die,
Thoughts that once broke my heart, slipping away before I could note them down,
Hiding deep within my head, while I sought them in vain,
Ones I craved to see, and thought hard,
But whose faces I no longer remember,
And today I smile, for I can drink a scene in quiet,
Letting its beauty quench my pain, flowing unhampered,
Stopp'd not by that filter within, that collects the residue of words,
Letting the rest flow within, while I jealously note these,
Blots of ink that dimly capture the moment,
That others might enjoy, and praise and applaud,
While I sit, freed from the compulsion to write,
And from remorse of losing the sight,
I now see the moon, a white orb in the sky,
A sight, full in itself, not hindered by a thought astray,
I shall sit here, drenched in this scene,
Drinking it in with my every sense,
Filling my every socket with this,
On and on, 'til my stomach hurts,
For I know for sure, that this won't last long,
That something shall come up, perhaps a noisy throng,
Or the plague of words might rise, moving my wrist,
Or a dumbfounding problem that makes me leave in haste,
And I search within for a means to return,
A way to come back to this refuge, this zone,
Before I know, my insides shift,
Morphing themselves into a brush, swift,
Rendering this moment, with the paint of thoughts,
So I can revisit it again, when I choose,
I see, now, that time's a river that flows*,
That if I seek to return to this instant,
I must pick a means to capture and pin it,
That if it's not a poem, it's another art form,
And if I must truly be in the present, I must learn,
To let it go.
Written between 9:30pm and 9:40pm on 9.6.2017
Final edits by 6:33pm on 10.6.2017
*This line is inspired by what my father told me about writing. He said, "Time is like a river, and writing is an attempt to capture a frame of its flow." He proceeded to tell me about how much one's writing can influence someone else, since I'd never know who would be reading it and how they would connect to it. For that reason, he said that I must always provide a positive solution to life's problems, and to give hope that there is a way out of even the darkest corners of life.
Now spilled onto my sheets of paper, that lie before thee,
Or forgotten by my blessed memory -
Lock'd in that keyless chamber where some thoughts might still lie,
Waiting in vain until they die,
Thoughts that once broke my heart, slipping away before I could note them down,
Hiding deep within my head, while I sought them in vain,
Ones I craved to see, and thought hard,
But whose faces I no longer remember,
And today I smile, for I can drink a scene in quiet,
Letting its beauty quench my pain, flowing unhampered,
Stopp'd not by that filter within, that collects the residue of words,
Letting the rest flow within, while I jealously note these,
Blots of ink that dimly capture the moment,
That others might enjoy, and praise and applaud,
While I sit, freed from the compulsion to write,
And from remorse of losing the sight,
I now see the moon, a white orb in the sky,
A sight, full in itself, not hindered by a thought astray,
I shall sit here, drenched in this scene,
Drinking it in with my every sense,
Filling my every socket with this,
On and on, 'til my stomach hurts,
For I know for sure, that this won't last long,
That something shall come up, perhaps a noisy throng,
Or the plague of words might rise, moving my wrist,
Or a dumbfounding problem that makes me leave in haste,
And I search within for a means to return,
A way to come back to this refuge, this zone,
Before I know, my insides shift,
Morphing themselves into a brush, swift,
Rendering this moment, with the paint of thoughts,
So I can revisit it again, when I choose,
I see, now, that time's a river that flows*,
That if I seek to return to this instant,
I must pick a means to capture and pin it,
That if it's not a poem, it's another art form,
And if I must truly be in the present, I must learn,
To let it go.
Written between 9:30pm and 9:40pm on 9.6.2017
Final edits by 6:33pm on 10.6.2017
*This line is inspired by what my father told me about writing. He said, "Time is like a river, and writing is an attempt to capture a frame of its flow." He proceeded to tell me about how much one's writing can influence someone else, since I'd never know who would be reading it and how they would connect to it. For that reason, he said that I must always provide a positive solution to life's problems, and to give hope that there is a way out of even the darkest corners of life.
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