Over the course of my recent move (you may have heard that I moved? No? Well, I did.) I found lots of things that I did not know I had any more. Case in point: during high school, I was part of a creative writing club. Eventually I got tired of hearing people read poems about the blackness, or about wine-red blood or blood-red wine and the vampire in their soul. So, in an effort to shake things up a little bit, pure innocent junior-year me wrote the following untitled poem about the creative process of writing a poem.
I feel the urge upon me, a primal need to create
I must pass my legacy on to future generations.
Power courses through my body -
Stimulates me -
My mind hardens, grows,
Thick with ideas
Throbbing, pulsing in tune to gentle fingertips
Slowly coaxed, the concept forming
Tension builds thoughts ache for release
words tease each with new pleasures
i lick my lips but they're licked by another
one who has taken over
one who dangles the ecstacy of a perfectly turned phrase
images that tantalize
burning with intensity
i feel the end near
suddenly
the final words
in a sweet
mind-numbing
gush
darken the page
leaving me gasping
trying to pick up the pices
As the one who emerges from the catacombs, all unbidden
returns to hide again
Safe --
He will be remembered.