People talk about spring renewal, but autumn's changing leaves were what gave her a fresh outlook.
I want to write you stories, histories, poetry
I want to write you stories, histories, poetry.
The moonlight slips through my bedroom curtains
alighting my thoughts, and in wisps
they escape my mind.
A glowing dust trail lingers in the air,
sets my fingers typing—
no, writing
the pen viced between my thumb and fingers,
a slave to my wrist, hand, brain
Electric shocks along my nerves,
and I'm holding the pen too tightly,
my fingers turning white
I cannot stop.
Everything in my mind floods down
and my breathing slows
Write, I must write and everything else falls back.
I hold my breath,
fight the sleep overcoming my eyelids
curl my toes, asking my body to stay with me
Let the writing happen.
I have so much to tell you
But I'm tired. I won't remember it.
How can I understand thoughts that haven't crossed my mind yet?
But the pen knows, so my fingers move
Writing, just writing, and I feel removed
I become an instrument, all my strings pulled taut
waiting to be plucked, drawn
the inspiration's vibration, springing through me
releasing, relaying, readjusting
My fingers know the rhythm
My mind captured the shapes
The writing becomes automatic,
perpetual, self-inflicted, involuntary
I let out my breath
The strings slack
My grip loosens
Losing focus, forgetting
What happened?
The moonlight slips through my bedroom curtains
alighting my thoughts, and in wisps
they escape my mind.
A glowing dust trail lingers in the air,
sets my fingers typing—
no, writing
the pen viced between my thumb and fingers,
a slave to my wrist, hand, brain
Electric shocks along my nerves,
and I'm holding the pen too tightly,
my fingers turning white
I cannot stop.
Everything in my mind floods down
and my breathing slows
Write, I must write and everything else falls back.
I hold my breath,
fight the sleep overcoming my eyelids
curl my toes, asking my body to stay with me
Let the writing happen.
I have so much to tell you
But I'm tired. I won't remember it.
How can I understand thoughts that haven't crossed my mind yet?
But the pen knows, so my fingers move
Writing, just writing, and I feel removed
I become an instrument, all my strings pulled taut
waiting to be plucked, drawn
the inspiration's vibration, springing through me
releasing, relaying, readjusting
My fingers know the rhythm
My mind captured the shapes
The writing becomes automatic,
perpetual, self-inflicted, involuntary
I let out my breath
The strings slack
My grip loosens
Losing focus, forgetting
What happened?
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