Poetry Is A Confessional Box Poem by Mark Heathcote

Poetry is a confessional box you never leave
you can only lie to yourself for so long
before you demand truthful answers and wish
to hear more than an indistinct voice in the wilderness.
It's an inner calling to gather insights beyond
these four walls and once it's-been-opened
a wellspring rushes forth, a confession without end
with or without forgiveness, asks for a hearing
not to be proud but just to be welcomed as rain could,
a rainbow, passing through its many different honest phases.
To distil once more on a window pane or dislodge
a tear long since frozen in other poems' disgruntled pages.
Sat with hands and stomach knotted, praying
for a thousand pointless different answers.