come out, come out where ever you are

Is poetry still poetry when it refuses to meet paper and hides in the deepest corners of your brain? Those eloquent words, they are in there -- I know because I feel them.

Moving me to tears, both of joy and of sorrow. Telling me that the sands of time stop for nothing and no one and to make the best of every second. Pleading with me to wake from this self-defeating sleep

Wonderful words, lovely letters, sensual sentences that will never be poetry until I can find a way to trap them and introduce them to paper.