How Strange

To be filled with joy
To be filled with peace
Yet not be able to write

When rage and sorrow
Well up within the soul
The words flow with ease

When lost in thought
When the spirit is heavy
Is it easy to write

Is it the curse of the poet?
Or is it the change in heart?

Will the darkness fade
Before the light of day?

Or will the pen become still
And the writer no longer write?