A Poem of Sorts

There's a poem inside me screaming to be born.
No, birth is not the metaphor to use.
This poem fights for life.

It rips at the back of my eyeballs,
It tears at the lining of my stomach,
It makes my hands twitch whenever my fingers touch a pen.
I can't sleep at night because it shouts in my dreams.

My body shakes as images fill my brain.
The words of other poets drift in my mind:
"Only here and there, an old sailor,
Asleep and drunk in his boots,
Catches tigers in red weather,"
And:
"What rough beast, his hour come at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"
And:
"The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream."

I need to get this poem out of my life.
But how?
It grinds my insides.
It beats at my heart.
It sneaks its words into my head no matter what I'm doing.
Images float into and out of my sight.
Caves, mountains, crosses, deserts, wood, cities, falling, forgiveness
They make no sense but somehow they are connected.
God help me. I can not help myself.

October 2007