The Gentle Breeze and the Raging Tiger

I am outside under the eternal sky. The sun gazes at me, a watchful eye in the face of space. Under the blue expanse, on this grand yet small planet the zephyr surrounds me. Moving with it's own intent, a great yet gentle slipstream that represents freedom. Suddenly, a bit of the hurricane force merges with me. It stirs my soul, moves me to write. It shakes something inside, like a spectator teasing an animal at the zoo. I become riled, excited, EMPOWERED! I want to keep the force within me but I cannot. It is a wild mustang, a horse that cannot and will not be tamed. A master-servant relationship, if only I knew which one I was. All I can hope to do is hold on for as long as I can. It changes the person within, makes me more beast than man. I am transfigured. It starts slow, a slight pricking within my heart. It spreads throughout my body til it reaches my head. I can feel it, burning, unstoppable. Suddenly the sensation explodes! The inspiration tries to leave like gushing water from a geyser. But it isn't what it was before. No longer a cool breeze, it is a raging river. The transformation irritates me, if only my words could capture this feeling. I am like a broken camera. The colors are all wrong, the picture is not a true reflection of my self. The result is like looking at at mirror across a mirror. The flow at my core is a raging tiger. It strives furiously to escape, to rampage across the world. In my personal state I am not the master; neither Sigfried or Roy. No Tarzan am I, no. I am Clayton, the slayer of nature. I am the king's cage, a restraint to my aggression, passion, and drive.

Comments and advice would be appreciated

Compulsive Drive

In the crowd known as life I am torn by my ambitions. I am pulled to bits by my desires, destroyed by my thoughts. Memories and emotions shatter me and scatter the pieces like glass. In this noise I am drawn everywhere and nowhere. I want everything but receive nothing. In this cacophony, this raging orchestra of greed, a voice calls out to me. The voice is lucid and clear, a single drop in a storm. There is a whisper in my being, a faint breeze in my mind. Slowly but gradually, the whisper elevates into a shout. It silences all the other voices, one by one, until finally, it is the only thing that I can hear. The voice echoes in my heart and resonates with my being. It drives me and beckons me to to pick up pen and paper. When this sound overwhelms me I know what I desire. Obsessively, compulsively, there is only one thing I can do. I must write. I realize that it's the only way to show the real me, a pure record of myself. I will imbue history with a shade of my being, imbibe this page with my soul. Like a scarlet drop, red as blood and dark as night. Blue light; calm, translucent, the sky's reflection. My body and mind cease to exist within this world's page. Only my spirit remains here.