I used to write so unselfconsciously
Emotions flowing, fictional or real
As if out of the very heart of me
A record not of thought, only of feel
An univestigated stream of words
Abandoning my soul to leap onto
The page, a little like the songs of birds,
Which, though rehearsed, are sung anew
Each morning with an ease unthought and clear;
Those days are gone - else why would I lament
Their passing? Now the effort is most dear
To hammer words, no longer instinct-sent
Into the page. But in exchange, now I
Have some control of whom they're written by.
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