The Key
Constantly trapped
between the multitude and the desire,
the hope to be the spark,
the fire –
The great catalyst of an age.
But still one with the flow,
an ink drop on a page
blacked out by scribblings,
jottings,
drawings –
Everything that was,
is,
may yet be.
Paralyzed by apprehenison –
An obsidonal tension
that my everything is nothing
and my something’s just that.
My every contribution
to the world of self-expression
may only be a splotch,
a blot,
a drop –
but at least my something is just that.
Something.
Anything.
My spark in the fire.
My scribble on the page.
The key to my cage.
Poetic Explorations 