I feel, now that I am...
Happier, I suppose,
All "Bursts of energy" that fed my
poetry has left me entirely.
Must I discontinue my work?
Must I now seal my mouth,
Cap my pen,
Break my pencil?
I think not.
The Rythm of words was never meant to be
"Granted" by "Energy."
The Rythm is already there.
It exists in all things.
Rythm resides in trees,
Sleeps in stones,
Sways with the very wind itself.
If you strip an object of its Rythm,
You its soul.
You take its will to live.
You take its very identity.
You crush it,
Destroy it,
Kill It.
You, yourself, are incapable of taking one's Rythm.
You cannot reach out and touch it,
Listen and hear it,
Look and see it.
Only you can take your Rythm from
Yourself.
When you decide,
"I can't do this,"
You kill your Rythm.
When you say,
"Impossible,"
You kill your Rythm.
Rythm is what gives us our spirit.
Rythm is what puts life into the living.
Don't give away your Rythm,
Don't break it.
Take care of it.
For without Rythm,
We
Are
Nothing.
