There is a certian control that poetry takes over on you when you write it; you cannot put down the pen before it is finished; whether it be your will or its will. It is  a disease; with no cure, then again, would you want to be cured?


The Poet’s Fever

The brow drips drops of the soul’s squinted eyes that try to see through the flames;

eyes shot with veins reddened and threaded throughout; enflamed from the fatigue;




A feverish breath clings to the ideas

of love,

of hate,

of sorrow.

Burning up to the touch; hot from the words;

etched on the paper; black ink smoke smeared;

nauseated from the passion that spews at will and stirs in the belly to bring  an

emotional embodiment that expresses



and spirit.

(in single, cookie cutter words

that flow out like the whistling wind through the

lungs of the heart).

Mind manipulation that haunts the dreams;

but brings no nightmares.


Copyright to: poetofmidnight

<a rel=”license” href=””><img alt=”Creative Commons License” style=”border-width:0″ src=”×31.png” /></a><br />This work is licensed under a <a rel=”license” href=””>Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.



~ by poetofmidnight on October 22, 2012.

2 Responses to “”

  1. Hi there I cannot believe I was not following you I must of accidentally unticked you !! Anyway it is lovely to see you around . I lovely this poem it puts into word very similar feelings to my own. It can especially cathartic after you have had a long block! keep well. xx

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