Outward Bound

Maturity of thought is like the thickening of the shell that keeps on binding the spirit until all freedom of imagination is locked inside and looking to find its way out.  When we are children we exercise our creative prowess in the pictures we draw and our imaginative tea parties that we host. But then they begin to abandon us when the maturation of life calls for our attention and obedience.  We must obey the laws to make us civil and keep us that way.  We must plan ahead in a compliant way to support ourselves and our families.  Life is that demanding.
By our conditioning, we poets are forced to think in that same manner.  Rules and regulations are our guidelines.  They are there to keep our writing civil, but if we keep it that way, it has no spirit or desire to run free.  Unlike laws to keep us civil, in writing there are no victims to be harmed by our rebellion.  We are those people who have permission to distort and reinvent truth.  Since truth is the foundation of logic, we can play with it as if it were a toy.  We can mock it, humor it, abandon it, and have fun while doing it.  We can become those children again, but now we have mature minds that can differentiate what is fantasy and what is logic. We now have control over our thoughts and can describe those feelings.  Creativity is the scribe of the unbound soul.
When we were children, we were poets in the spirit.  We laughed at life for the way it binds our thoughts.  Solemnity is the language of those affected by truth, that disease that intensifies throughout maturity.  When we become poets, our laughter is expressed through the words that we write when we defy the maturation process.
We have become slaves of our inhibitions.  They keep knocking at the door to be released out into the open and await our need to recondition ourselves when they hinder our creativity.  We have to free our minds of everything that binds us to us and think of freeing ourselves from ourselves.

We as poets
Quite a lot we are
What comes inward
We turn it around
And make it
Outward bound
Then forget about it
Life is but a dream