“Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself.”
~ Erich Fromm
A heartbeat strong and sure,
pure and unadulterated; slated for great things
if only he’d assume his gift and lift it heavenward.
Words become him, but he struggles,
his message is saturated; inundated with self-doubt.
Tucked away like a cocoon, a swoon
of outrageous proportions. He succumbs
to the demons in residence, brought about
by said doubt and deprivation; a degradation.
But, still within, a heart beats strong and sure.
Confidence in short supply, he relies on
what his soul regurgitates and spews onto paper and page.
Sage advice he had once read. Man’s purpose –
his only purpose is to re-invent who he was meant to be.
The darkness lurches as sporadic contractions push him,
his tunnel vision shrouded in a murky mire,
and as synapses start to fire he sees the light,
at the end of the tunnel he is blinded by brilliance.
A gentle slap to a lifeless muse brings a gasp,
and he grasps for pencil and pad; a poet reborn.
(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik