Poetry begins
As an ache within the soul
That must be spilled
Dark, blobbed, and bubbling,
Or starlight shimmering,
Or bright, soft color splashing
Upon a page
It is an itch in the mind.
You must reach into your head
And pull out the feather,
Dip its end in the ink of thought
And write
Until the itch is satisfied
By the scratching of the quill.
The ache, the itch,
The hollow echo of words yet unsaid
And so,
Poetry begins

– s. Clark