My Urge to Write

I feel like I could write and write
And never, never stop;
Like I could whip and lash at words
Until exhausted they must drop.

As though I could reach out and touch
The furthest star in time;
To bring to earth tormented tunes
Of reason and of rhyme.

I feel as though the whole, wide world
Were mine to quench with fire;
To hear the echoing words rip back
Aloft the highest spire.

I feel as though if untold wealth
Were scattered at my feet;
It is as naught if could write
And write, nor stop for sleep.

I feel as though my quivering soul
Is filled with words that seek;
An outlet from an inner voice
Long stilled, but now must speak.

What is this vibrant yearning
That seeks to rip the cord;
Of silence long entombed within
Yet aching to be heard?

What is this urge within me
For a pen to capture fast;
Words which spill like water dammed
Now loosed and rushing past?

Peace! Peace! My soul be still
And let time take its lingering space;
There’s room and time for all men’s works
Within the human race.

Let not the heart be hasty
Nor let the hand be swift;
Lest the desire to spill it forth
Divide the mended rift.

Lest God looks down and frowns upon
The urgent need of man;
Be still my heart, nor overdue
The things one must and can.

– Circa 1925 at 14 years of age

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