It

I create because I must.

There is something in me that urges expression.

It nags and feels impossible to express,

Through song, By design

Through prose, By lines

Intangible, ethereal, simple, vague, stupid, common

Mostly though because I cannot tell,

What is it?

This is scary enough; if I don’t know what it is, how do I know

If I could release it, should I release it?

What a dilemma; worse yet, do I suffer the world of it?

Or keep me trapped within myself with it?

The maddening scratching need to share my it

Without knowing if the world would be better for it.