Poetry can be a painful cathartic process,
The baring of the heart,
The unleashing of the soul,
As the darkness within rolls out
Like a primordial storm of doom.
The eliciting of words
As painful as extracting teeth,
Dropping drip by drip like blood upon the page,
Demonstrating passion,
Demonstrating rage,
Filled with such emotions that cannot be explained,
Frustration at this stage writes it’s own tales,
Torturous screams as if impaled
The desperation not to fail,
My creativity is not for sale
As my desire reaches beyond the pale,
Of self chastised indulgence
And self hating that is repugnant,
In the eyes of those who fail to understand.
fauxcroft 
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