Passion

Enclosed within a lump of clay

Molded by Nature's hand

And placed within a cage

With veins that pump with life

Is a voice that cannot speak

That cannot laugh or cry or seek

A voice that cannot scream

But oh, so longs to be heard

 

Enclosed within this clay

Is a fiery voice of words

That shoots onto the page

And splatters colors of grays and blues

And violets and reds and greens

Sometimes it shoots a yellow

That warms a frozen soul

And livens a vegetable brain

And caresses a demon's heart

Sometimes it shoots orange rays

Of a light that had been dimmed

By the shades of grays that spew

From my gnarled veins

 

Enclosed within this soft, pink clay:

A hose of splattered bloody paint

Of words no longer contained

But placed upon this blank, white page

 

And if not for this defeaning voice

Within this soft, pink clay

Perhaps my soul would not be painted

But lost in the ashes of a soul decayed

This poem is about: 
Me

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