Harmony's Diction

I try to force the words to flow
Down from my brain, into my
Hands, though my fingertips
And into the keyboard, but like
A flute without a player, they
Will not make music across the
Page, will not coerce metaphors
To dance across the screen, to
Sashay gracefully in neat rows
Of letters, words, sentences.
Prose cannot be wrought from
Fevered greed, carnal desire to
Punish the keys until their letters
Cower in fear and exhaustion.
As rage cannot be extracted
From memories of bliss, so
Poetry will not come to life
Driven by the plume of a
Writer mad with need to create.
As the future cannot be sought
From ancient faces, so too
Can lyrics not flow from a
Mouth so eager to make music
That it does not stop to consider
Exactly what it is proclaiming
To the world as truth. Only when one
Calms the inner maelstrom that
Urges quick stabs at the keyboard
Can they properly bring forth
Life from patient, gentle taps
And whispers of passion unspent
Played across a field of characters
Set on a stark backdrop of color
In the inverse. Like drawing high,
Sweet notes from the ivories of a
Piano, only though nurturing can
Talents grow and stories spring forth.