Reason To Write

19 Jan 98

This reason to write that steals my hand
from more mundane chores that demand attention
yet must suffer for the ever-present compulsion
to notate
the sound of one more joy
the color of one more symphony
the taste of one more blue sky.
It keeps me, master it is,
tied to continually create mundane rantings
that say nothing fresh
yet must be place upon fresh pages
to release the tensions of thought.
Yet, and yet...
the startling beauty and wordless joy
when a poem stolen from my heart
has touched the soul
of those that hear my tale
and throw kudos to my aching heart.
Ah, this reason to write that steals my heart
so that every moment must be documented
in its painful anguish
in its unending ennui
in its shattering exhaltation.
A second, a minute, and an hour more
I steal from pastel waiting rooms and deadly meetings
to place pen to pristine page,
or, furious fingers racing 'cross keyboard
to impart just one more sensation
to any audience, no audience, only myself
it does not matter
just so the words are freed
to take flight upon wings of smudged black
and soar upon the currents of approbation.
This reason to write that steals my soul
to leave me babbling incoherently to the walls
as I mutter words and phrases and sentances
and poems incomplete
to none other than my own ear
until parchment can be found to hold 
these magical incantations that bind my soul
     once more to the rendering.
What more can I give to the world
than this connaissance that forces
my hand
my heart
my soul
to this reason to write.



© 1998, Tara Tambolleo