How many poems do I have to write?

The poet can never know the number of poems he has in his pen.

When will my mind be at ease?

Alliteration litters the collective cacophony of human communication.

Can I turn off the voice?

The tone of one’s voice is dictated by the constriction of vocal cords.

When can my soul be at rest?

The soul is a vessel sailing in the ethereal without a port.

How can I contain the poetic spirit?

The poetic spirit is a tricky beast, one not easily bound by conventional traps and cages.

Dare I call it a curse?

Creativity is the curse of those who dare to see more than is here, they see what is unseen.

I don’t ever want to be rid of this curse. This curse is who I am, and who I shall always be.