the quest

 
the soul of a writer
is inside her creation
little pieces of her reflection, flavor and feel

taste me in my endless search
for the right inflection and expression of my pain
so ripe it appeals to the senses
of those whose plight is similar

tears prismatic in color
they are little fractures of hurt
they paint me beautiful

I've long denied them the open spaces
where they can greet the sun
endlessly standing in the shadows of shame
they are named and captured

lonely, frightened feelings
this one is named addiction
his brother is mania unchained
they bring me to my knees
creativity their Master
he must be served a piece of my flesh

on this unending quest
for the perfect poem
the one that makes sense

an explanation for why I was sent here
with the drive, the need, the hunger
to pick up the pen and uncover
what lies hidden beneath