...And here sits the writer

This is an older piece, that is the first in one of my favorite series of poems that I've written.

…and here sits the writer
Alone with his rage.
Held captive by pen
Decorating the page.

The first line began
In imagery's lair.
A quiet, shy youth
Sought refuge there.
Alone in a world
Of lost interpretation.
Misunderstood truths
Guised as imagination.
And the words were all there
But they barely stood out.
For what does a child,
Write with passion about?
False forced emotions
Misguided by youth.
You asked the right questions
But could not hear the truth.

So here sits the writer
With paper and pen
To try to explain
Where he's never been!

But the writer evolved
Through pain and through time.
And found the emotions
Missing from his rhyme.
But shadowed within
A darkness stood fast
Until in his search
The right question was asked.
And the darkness emerged
From where it used to hide
And the writer was lost
Somewhere deep inside.
And choas, it reigned
In the realm of control.
For the darkness, it was
His own tortured soul!

So here sits the writer
Alone in a cage.
Created and sentenced
By his own violent rage!

2/12/01