A Writer's Angst

"We all play roles. I do too. And our roles demand us to do certain things. I have to do them too. I just try to loosen that a bit and not let these compulsions of my role define the entirety of who I am" - Words

"I reluctantly take credit because I was the first to hear from within, to come in contact with and to note down these words that wrote themselves" - The Poet

I watch, with a sideglance, at the words,
That I found, so proudly, I could manipulate,
Flexing them like balls of clay, teasing them about,
With fingers that could keep up with thoughts,
Slowing them down though, to beautify articulation,

I wonder, as I add a kick to a line,
My vanity silencing the voice of doubt,
If this is truly an attempt to capture wisps of my soul,
Or perhaps just a tool, to capture others',

While my wonderful readers read with love,
Nodding, to affirm with their heads and soul,
That I'd put into words what they too felt,
Appreciating subtlety that's captured in ink,

Spelt out exactly as they knew, within,
As if there's a smooth link between their heart and my digits,
I still wonder, as I'd smile at praise,
If my works would be purer if untainted by grammar and style,

Do I claim the praise of Language Herself,
When in truth, I'm just a channel for her flow,
Perhaps the best I can do is work with the ways of the world,
Honest only until the ceiling hits my head,

I talk and I write, to connect and to document,
Little breadcrumbs like Hansel, to retrace the roadless path to my soul,
And write some more, in exhaustion, to lessen the burden,
Of thoughts and feelings that haunt my head,

Do I love them, these words that I note with such fervour?
Or do I ask to bury them to never dig up again?
For, after all do I not seek to be rid,
Of thoughts and feelings I'd picked up on the way,

Thoughts that I've held, so long and hard,
That they've scarred the fingers that now hold my pen,
That when I seek to put them down on a sheet,
I cannot but mix a piece of my soul,

Thoughts solidified over years, over decades,
That I've forgotten, were only collected, not created,
That they shall leave behind a deep imprint on my hands,
That I wish to be free from having to remember,

Yes, I did seek some relief indeed,
But not entirely from feelings that I felt with love,
I sought merely to record so I didn't have to carry,
And to make space in me so I could revisit these in peace,

And once I start writing, I become free half way through,
With more to say but no energy to write,
And as my soul begs to empty itself, my hand wishes to stop,
For there's no fuel left to make it move

Oh who knew I'd need such pain to write,
That my soul had to boil for words to spill out?

With one hand stabbing my heart while the other wrote,

So it was blood, not ink that filled my pen,

Who knew, that there's a path between the heart and words,

That, to pump words through this mapless path,

One most spend a part of one's might,

Trampling other thoughts on the way,

And when there isn't more to fill my pen,
That a thought would suffocate on it's way to my nib,
Desperate, I attempt to keep a dying thought alive,
I stab it before it ripens full,

To note an idea that's still a child,
I desecrate its supple, rosy skin,
Sinning, heartless beyond any way I can atone,
And i nail it to my sheets, thin and weak,

Stabbing the bliss of the present moment,
In a frenzied attempt to not let it pass,
I stain my pages that can never be washed,
Only to find that I've strangled more thoughts,

Oh I see I should let these grow full,
And let them flow to make it count,
And as I pause to record this thought,
I kill another as I note it down,

Oh I thought I was a saviour, a harmless chronicler,
Of those that're felt by man within,
Assigning names to those subtle twitches,
That're nameless yet deeper than language can ever see,

And now, as I look upon my bloody mess,
I see I'm a helpless surgeon,
Trying to do the best he can,
Doing my best with what I have,

I protect these thoughts without reading another,
Lest that destroys what's already within,
I try, with all my might to save what's with me,
But failing, at times, for I'm only a man,

Unable to stop, I try still,
Recording more by failing still,
While expressing, each word a tiny coffin of a moment,
For each one is always of a foregone instant.