Saturday, March 12, 2011

A Natural Condition?

Forgive me for complaining.

Today, my soul is starved.
And I would ask forgiveness from my spirit,
Which begs my heart to feel
One real emotion.
It asks my hands to write
Something both delicate
And pure,
Not understanding just how worthless
Such expression is.
And yet I must comply
With my enfuriated heart,
Which beats more like a wardrum
Than an organ
And chides me for forgetting what it's for.
My fingers itch to hold a pen
Not for a proper use; for freedom's sake!
My lips burn with a need for sound,
Which might escape as melody, not words.
My eyes ache with the boring day-to-day
And dry up with the dust of passing hours,
Not having seen the beauty
Of inspiring light.

Forgive me for complaining,
But compacency
Is nauseating.

Maybe it's just today.

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