Urge
I have that urge,
that urge which I cannot control,
quite without that empty dreaming,
about the things my fingers could weave,
out of the ideas of the darkness,
out of those silences in my heart,
I spill my heart out in an endless torrent,
which I cannot control,
and yet,
am stifled by my time,
taken up with things I consider important,
but I love them not,
this is what I love,
this exertion of my soul,
and I wish I could,
yet cannot,
but I shall persevere,
in between those thoughts and hopes,
I will remain the one I hope to be,
if only for those fleeting moments,
I yearn to grasp,
with a gratefulness,
fueled by that central core,
that
urge.