Don't Stop This Train...

College, as I've come to find out, is definately an inspiring place to spend four crucial years of your life. It took me a year to realize the full potential of an institute of high education, but I'm glad I did.

Recently, made evident by my recent joining of blogspot, I've had the most incredible urge to write. It's uncontrolable and my fingers literally ache to hastily inscribe a quick line or two into a peice of scrap paper before allowing the poem in its entirety to become a part of me. I'm two kinds of writers: a poet and an author of opinionated peices. Both have their advantages, but poetry is really my primary love in the world of us scribes. Poems allow me to get a point across without actually explaining what my point is. They can be subtle, completely confusing, my word choice is usually totally irrelevent to the message I'm trying to convey, and yet somehow...it works. Besides, most people will never aruge a poem. They just accept them for what they are: words that reflect, not only a point I wish to make, but also a unique tone and personality. Words that are sometimes distant—often silent speakers, but subliminally creative, forming a verbal image of the author’s (my own) feelings.

And the best part about all of this, is that I love it. There is no greater feeling to me (other than, perhaps, being loved) than staring at a blank word document and then suddenly becoming overwhelmed with these intricately formed sentences that could have in no way, shape, or form come from myself...and yet, they did. Each time it happens it's almost like I'm being introduced to an innate, genius ability that I never knew I had, that is so hard to spark, but so worth the hours and days of waiting for the perfect line to end the last stanza in a just-about-finished piece of myself. There are no rules, zero limitations, and never any possibilty of mistake. There is only inspiration with room for nothing but a newborn set of words that make their entrance intro our world through mothers like our own. Nourished by observation, fuled by experience, given to the public with a feeling of independence comprable to an eighteen year old's first day of college.

It's a beautiful process, and I could write about it forever. But I'll stop because I know it can never be properly or fully explained, only understood by the artists of our world inspired to live by creation and who live to create.

Love.