Magic I see in words, an urge, to create. Hope, for my creation, and me. Making music, that is silent. Putting emotion, where it can be seen.
My poetry has purpose. This is true. Calming, the torrent in my mind. Helping me remember, to breathe. Bringing beauty, to others, I hope.
A compulsion, a drive, a madness. Words that must come out. Words that must be read. I let go, and it overtakes me.
I write and find peace in the carnage, of my brain, instead of torment. Ideas flooding in, hands working, to record the magical chaos.
Rhythm's racing through. Syllables, rhymes, lines, images and thoughts, trying, to get on to the paper.
Then I look at my creation, and hope, that others will see it too. That they will see my music, in these words, that I must write.