[With]In the Confines of Solitude

How beautiful a passtime could it be,
To weave words from thoughts within me?
When my companion in solitude,
Is the pen dancing with my digits?

When thoughts that play in the screen of my head,
Spring to life, ceasing to be dead,
Spitting such delicate strokes in the canvas of my book,
That stir souls that grant them a look?

Fools are they who laugh at the alone,
For they know not the sound of the mind's tune,
It collects colours from sights and songs and words,
Painting such works that bring awe and tears,

They sleep, they sing, they read when lonely,
Fleeing from thoughts that fill their minds wholly,
Letting not the pressure within subside,
Opening not, the doors of their heads,

Yes, appreciating art is as sweet as it sounds,
It fills one with pleasure unbound,
But many know not the feel of art,
Flowing out their arms, into another's heart.

Epilogue:

Lock'd you are, they say, with your thoughts,
But they see not the power that's been unlocked,
The chance to turn and look within,
To listen to the beats of one's own heart,

To watch the movement of the stuff of the mind,
To dance within, to these tunes of a kind,
To listen to the music that brews inside,
And to record the bubbles that escape your spirit.