A Very Old One

I was plumbing the depths of my writing folder, and found a poem from a year and a half ago that I thought I'd lost. Enjoy!

Sketch From The Sun-Lit Benches

On my door I've written my own motto -
"Imposed form is Imposed frame of mind."

It's not an indictment of
any sort of classical poetry -
I don't pretend to be above it,
I'm not claiming to be offended by iambic pentameter -
or loathe being trapped inside
the parallels of a sonnet.

It's a reminder.
A reminder that voice needs freedom - that truth
only comes when we free ourselves to say
exactly what we want to say.

Imposed form is imposed frame of mind
is a warning.
Beware, beware -
stifled voice is a taint to the soul and
bottling voice puts
horrible pressure on yourself
that increases and expands,
as its feasts on everything
inside that you treasure,
defend as being a part of you
and absolutely necessary to your survival.

Imposed form is imposed frame of mind is a reminder
to live your life.
To find an outlet for pulsing creative consciousness -
why I spill ink onto torn,
raped sheets of virgin notebooks -
to run howling in the streets because there's just too much to
hold inside -
to sketch and draw and shade in the world with your life -
to find a way to leave your mark -
write your chorus
and hum your melody
scream and shout and dance
and sing
and to do it
in your own mind, with your own voice,
and a free, beating heart.

I'm learning to live for myself -
I'm learning to live my life for me - to live honestly,
I'm learning to live
in the space between moments
the heartbeats between the flash of lightning I'm counting
one, two, three
till the rolling rumble of life begins again

Cherishing the good moments
the mornings when I can run and revel in the pounding
beat of feet meeting pavement in the heart of
my city
the mornings when the sun envelops -
warmth and light melding together and bringing slow smile
to face.
The mornings when pen scratches over paper
so fast that i can't keep up and
the wheel that spins out my thread of consciousness
is throwing sparks -

The musician loves his callused hands
for the proof that they give -
physical evidence that those hands produce the
music he hears in his head,
screaming out of cerebellum to fingertips
to be summoned into the world as
rhythm
melody
improving the world as it strengthens his soul and
hardens his hands -
each note leaves an impression on his body

We're all living for the mornings
and so accept the nights - when they come,
and we thank fully
that they're rare - when loneliness strikes
and slips tendrils into head and
heart and makes you groan
and when you drop off to sleep,
exhausted from the struggle -

The nights are the price we pay, the
debt to work off -
we're living for the moments
when the world is quiet.