Inside The Hearts' Walls

Emotions so great, burning passions withheld. No escape.
Attempting in vain, try, explain. To open our souls, agape.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible
Words, with no meaning. Myself fully expressed? Dreaming.
Poetry

An outlet, spirits breathing. Easy? Absurd, demeaning.
I sit and I write. Pure gold? Ehh, worthless. No purpose, meaning.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Improbable
Minds, simple third parties translating. Souls free? Ha! Still waiting.
Poetry

Poets are weird, strange, looney bin. From society, divided, Berlin.
No, I disagree, poets live among the ranks, mothers, warriors, Akin.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible? No, I refuse to give in.
Us who try, fruitlessly, to send our souls from our depths, apprehend.
Poetry

Beauty, we do not create. Release it from confines, we elate.
Lurking in all of us, a poet. Find him! Too masculine? Oh Ego. Deflate.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible still? No, Articulate.
Within your heart, sleeps ample love. But your soul’s in chains. Rise above.
Poetry


by John
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The poem I'm sending to the Commuter this week. I hope it's not too long (they say they'd prefer no more than 120-130 words, this one's 172).