Creativity freed
from the structural
prison the decision
to pen the consciousness
within won out over the thin
argument of conformity’s
Apollonian demands,
and like sands falling
through the glass
the words are flowing
past my eyes and my
fingers don’t linger
long upon these keys
that for so long stared
with derision and laughed
at my poetical decisions
A block that mocked
and castrated the spirit
of creative bliss
This is freedom
in poetical existence
and the distance I cover?
Only time will discover
if any of it was worth
a **** at all...