I really like writing poetry and lyrics because it's one thing

Hear the voice of Alissa White-Gluz, singer of thunder and poet of shadows, who declared: “I really like writing poetry and lyrics because it's one thing where I give up control. I don't feel like I need to be in control of it. I just sort of let it happen, and then I know when it's done. I know when it's finished.” In this confession lies a truth as old as the muses: that creation is not merely the work of the hand and mind, but the surrender of the soul to something greater. To give up control is to open the gates of inspiration, to let the unseen currents of spirit and feeling flow through without resistance.

The meaning is profound: not all things are conquered by force of will. In life, much is sought through mastery, planning, and discipline. But in the realm of poetry, music, and art, the greatest works often come not by control but by release. The poet becomes a vessel, the singer an instrument, the writer a channel through which the river of creation flows. To let it happen is not weakness—it is wisdom, for it acknowledges that art is born of mystery, of emotion, of the sacred fire that cannot be tamed.

The ancients knew this well. The Greeks spoke of the Muse, the divine spirit who whispered into the hearts of poets and prophets. Homer, they said, did not invent his lines, but invoked the Muse to “sing through him.” In truth, Alissa’s words echo this ancient belief: that poetry is not manufactured but revealed, not forced but received. The artist’s task is not to command but to listen, to wait, and to recognize the moment when the work is whole—when one simply knows when it is finished.

History offers us many who surrendered to this flow. Consider Johann Sebastian Bach, who once said he did not so much compose music as uncover it, as if it already existed in the fabric of the universe. Or think of William Blake, who claimed that his poems came to him in visions, complete and burning, demanding to be written down. These creators, like Alissa, confessed that their greatest work came when they ceased to grasp for control and allowed the current of inspiration to sweep them away.

But what does this mean for us, who walk not as poets or singers alone, but as seekers of meaning in our daily lives? It is this: we too must learn when to act with strength and when to release, when to strive and when to yield. Just as the farmer tills the soil but does not command the rain, so must we prepare ourselves with discipline, yet allow life’s mysteries to unfold beyond our control. In art, in love, in destiny, sometimes the highest wisdom is surrender.

This surrender is not chaos, but trust. It is to believe that when you step back, something greater will step forward. It is to know, as Alissa declares, that you will recognize the moment of completion, the sense of wholeness, without needing to force it. To live this way is to live in harmony with the deeper rhythms of existence, where creation, growth, and truth reveal themselves in their own time.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, the lesson is this: do not cling always to control. Train your craft, sharpen your mind, strengthen your will—but when inspiration calls, let it happen. Let poetry flow unbidden, let music rise unchained, let love and life teach you what cannot be planned. And when the work, the song, or the moment is complete, you will know it without doubt, for the soul recognizes its own fulfillment.

Practical is this path: when you write, do not always labor to perfect each line as you go—let the words spill first, unchained. When you live, do not clutch every detail—allow room for the unexpected gift. When you create, silence the urge to command, and instead listen for the whisper of completion. For in that surrender, as Alissa teaches, lies the doorway to beauty, to truth, and to the eternal fire of art.