The best poems in the world are written in my mind. The only problem with them is that they’re only in my mind. The difficulty is actually writing words that don’t exist and expressing emotions that can’t be real outside of a human imagination. In my mind anything can rhyme if you think about it the right way. The power of the poem is in the power of the thinker, who has all the rules of reality bent to his will in his consciousness.
Those best poems can’t be written because they aren’t real to anyone but the poet. Writing is limited by writing as songs are limited by singing. Thoughts, though, are free. Thinking is unbound. In my head, everything can make sense if I want it too. I am not limited by logic, or by reality, or by words and rationality. My emotions can remain undefined, my thoughts can remain confusing, and my poems can remain nonexistent.
Which is why I find writing so difficult sometimes. It forces me to put together thoughts onto paper. The infinite dimensions of the imagination are all of a sudden constricted to two. Rhythms and rhymes that once made sense collapse to confusion. Brilliance descends to mediocrity.
I still write, however, to look at my thoughts from the outside. Words on a computer screen are never can never be mine, even if I wrote them, and I can critique freely. There, I can see how sensical my mind’s nonsense is. That is the advantage of writing, it forces and plunges your thoughts and you right into the dreadfulness of reality.
But I never write for self-discovery. The words here are not mine, and I learn only a little from them. What is true about me is only in me, and I can only interpret it from within. I can see clearly without the filters of words into what really is true inside. Even as I write this, it is not how I would have it. It is not true to what I’m trying to say. The words are tarnished, and only my thoughts are pure.
For that reason I rarely write poetry or share stories. I have books of ideas in my head, entire stories and tales that the world ought to hear. But I keep them with me, not out of selfishness, but out of that inability to share. What I write is not me thinking. Only what I think is me. Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh. I am who I am.
Whispers of Satan 