#24: The Thoughts of a Poet without a voice

Hi everyone,

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.
Release me.
Save me.
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
in a torrent
bringing life to
the depths
of my

through sands
into sands
in the endless
desserts of my mind.

And without seeing day light,
thoughts die inside
without a voice
to let lyrical metaphors
be rivers
that flow
down the valleys
towards your minds eye.

Thoughts die.

Volumes of dictionaries and thesaurus’
are unmarked graveyards
that 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
They lost their last
with the undignified loss
of the poet with no voice.

Thoughts that take no form
could not have lived.
We only remember
those who were
written and spoken
into life
who lived long lives. Short lives.
Regardless, just lives lived.

Yet, I frequent the docks of blank pages.
The last place I heard their sound
Hoping that the rivers
That flow down valleys
Made it to this sea.
A sea of white
to sail my thoughts on,
but unheard voices and
un-penned words
cannot set sail
when they never made it to 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 that never blooms.
Colourless sunsets.
A hunter with no spear
A smith with not fire
cannot bring iron to life.

I admit though,
there is a wall these thoughts cannot rise above.
I call that wall a dam
because it does not give a damn.
Holding back a sea of words
deep enough for Jesus to drown in,
but instead I drown.

For the river that never flows
will never reach the white sea.
Virgin pages remain ink-less,
unheard voices torment me
‘A poet with no voice’
‘A poet with no voice’

They will hold me captive
until I set them free.

By Hans Lee


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