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I keep my feelings in control;
safely snuggled in my soul.
I leave my left brain on patrol.
Staying private is my goal.
What I don’t verbalize, I write
often late into the night.
It may be insult or insight--
on the page, it receives light.
For me, my grief’s a private thing.
I, alone, should feel its sting.
But in a poem, a dirge I’ll sing--
like a bird, my tears take wing.
And even when I’m feeling rage,
I’m not likely to engage.
So unlike Shakespeare on his stage,
I’ll emote on printed page.
My writing frees me to impart
feelings fest'ring in my heart.
More freely flowing once I start,
it’s my outlet, and my art.
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