The Process of Freedom
Location
The poet harvested her seeds of inspiration,
And plummeted deep into the shallow surface
To expose what subtly lie underneath.
The veneer of pretense and fabricated laughter...
Her desire was to let go.
What was once a spore of an intangible idea
Has the the potential to blossom into an incredible work of art
This is the process that is also known as writing.
Before our poet was inspired,
Her weary eyes sought for new sites,
And her tiresome lungs longed for oxygen.
She’d took deep breathe in
And become conscious of an ambiguous, nervous tension
Swishing around somewhere unknown in her body.
The tick tock time bomb of surpressed emotion
Continued to tick away
And she was left in a sea of exasperation,
In a desperate need for an exit
Or at least, some kind of liberation.
She heard this little narrator inside her head speak,
“Quick, grab that pen. Before it’s too late.
This will be your remedy, this will save you.”
Her hand greeted the pen and the pen greeted the paper
And she, the writer—bled through the ink
In this present moment,
Her silence could no longer speak for itself
For this was her trice of lucid expression
A release, you could call it
A release of all her ideas, all the pain, all the love…
All of it, splattered onto a blank canvas for the world to see
This, she said spoke aloud; this is the freedom that writing gives to me.