An Ancient river

Take off the armour,
Scabbed to the wounds.
In their shell, you will see
Silent runes, and perfect sigils.

Whispers in the darkness,
Blood oaths spoken through
The bleeding.
Enchanting the dying spirit,
Driving me to walk up the mountain

All of this shivers at the peak,
Words of power crush the oppression,
A cold, northern flame turns everything to ashes,
Freedom speaks a different language,
Making me a stranger meandering down
An ancient river.

This poem was inspired by 'Tom Rosenthal - Go Solo' .

I am in Awe every time I pick up my pen to write, whether it is journaling or the occasional essay. 90% of it no one will ever see, and at the end of each year I probably throw away a stack of notepads about the height of a standard computer tower, and with it about four or five A4 counter books of 200 pages each.

None of these are as touching as my poetry though, It may be because it was the first art that touched my soul, it is more likely that it is because I used it as autotherapy. I created an alchemy for my soul, a doge-podge system that can change the internal stresses inside of me, settling in a stable place. I wonder how many other artists are out there that are artists because they need medicine that no-one can provide?

It is like writing the book you need to read, or singing the song that is just under your breath. We created these things because language cannot express intensity. Every Time I pick up the pen I loosen the controls I place on myself for the while, and it is through this I recreate myself, sending immortalised shards of my own soul into the world.