I’ve been struggling to really write lately after having been distracted with life lately. It is not to say I have been short of things to say, it was more so because the words were finding it difficult to fall on paper and take form. It wasn’t a writers block, I guess I’d explain it more like a creative block. Strangely enough, that was where I drew inspiration from to write this poem exploring my own thought process during the last couple of weeks.
Also keep in mind that this was written particularly for performance.
The Thoughts of a Poet without a voice
Let me lose.
I will torment you.
Hold you captive until you set me free.
The thoughts of a poet without a voice.
Why are these words cooped up in my mind tormenting me?!
Words that mould into being conjuring thoughts from the depths of my imagination.
Like rivers from springs in desserts flow in a torrent bringing life to the depths of my imagination
Rising through sands disappear into sands in the endless desserts of my mind.
And without seeing day light, thoughts die inside without a voice to let lyrical metaphors of rivers flow down the valleys towards your minds eye.
A dictionary and thesaurus of unmarked graveyards litter my mind –
here lies a thought you will never hear nor feel.
They were all imprisoned in the highest towers
summoned for an execution that never took place
though no one heard their last sounds
they lost their last breath
with the undignified loss of the poets voice.
Thoughts that take no form could not have lived.
We only remember those who were written to life
who lived long lives, short lives, regardless, just lives lived.
So I confront blank pages, a sea of white to sail my thoughts on, but unheard voices and ink-less words cannot set sail when they never made it to the shore.
And it pains me knowing that my thoughts are unaccounted for.
Never named, whispered or brought to life on blank pages
To carry my thoughts across white seas.
Now they taunt me ‘a poet with no voice, a poet with no voice’.
Without words I am an
Orchid without flowers
Sunsets without colour
A smith without fire –
Admitedly, there is a wall my thoughts cannot rise above,
I call that wall a dam because it does not give a damn.
It holds back a torrent of words so poetic it would make Jesus weep, but instead I weep.
For the river that leads no where will never reach the white sea,
virgin pages remain ink-less,
unheard voices torment me like a poet with not voice, a poet with no voice.
They will hold me captive until I set them free.
By Hans Lee