Amidst rolling hills of forests, winding roads and walking trails in Greenfield, Massachusetts, stands a lonely stone turret, watching over the quiet town. This scene observation spot has earned its stripes. In the mid-1800s, this tower gained the name "Poet's Seat" when Frederick Goddard Tuckerman, a solitary poet, perched himself above it on November 10th and just wrote.

Though this tower is now a stone recreation of the wooden tower which once stood in its place, the current tower still has multiple floors and arched windows, allowing the casual passerby to simply sit and observe the beauty of Greenfield.

At this time in my life, I have visited many a landmark, boasting of inspiring multitudes of generations of artists, and though I could appreciate them for what they were, I was not prepared for the absolute assault on my senses that would arise from such a quiet, peaceful landmark. There was an overwhelming sensation of just being possessed by the location, which I could only articulate through the words which seemed to just run out from my pen in that exact moment. Original spacing, punctuation and capitalization have been preserved:

"A spark of inspiration is spontaneous

Not truly something that can be controlled

it often feels as though the souls of every writer, every poet, every musician whom came before you

crashing into you,

Grabbing you heart and ripping it out of your chest to keep room for itself within your boddy

chipping away at you like some stone against age old concrete of a defensive tower,

the words flowing out of you like a universe coming into fruition

The stone will burn against your arms and yet you cannot stop

You’ve heard it said of taking a moment and feeling infinite,

but this is so much more

You are finite, as you understand the lives of every artist before you great and small taking a hold of you by the throat and every voice you’ve ever known screaming in your ear and they will not stop until they have set free every last thought

until the holes in your body are no longer eaten up by organs

but rather every vein is voice

and the marrow of your bones sings the early morning song of the sparrow, and the blood pumping through your arteries rushes through like the sound of the waterfall

And then you realize there is no waterfall

There is simply the sound of the souls rushing in and out of you, trading spots to make room for one another, consuming you in your entirety.

The clinging of the metal as you descend from these heights down the spiraling iron staircase serves only to draw you in, as though you shall not be released, ringing your name over and over and over again

I see now how all artists do go mad, for to let it out draws you in further, as you jump off the cliff and grow your wings as you fall

….

and yet to stop

to stop is to silence the music you hear ringing through out ears and feeding your soul

and i have NEVER felt such hunger, as it eats as you, as though it is not truly YOUR hunger, but the hunger of your body, aching like a guitar begging for you to pluck its strings before it falls out of tune and fails you and can no longer go on

your body is the instrument

Do not wait until you are harsh and out of tune"