return to poetrydust
The Writer
It was a cold night
Or was it a dark morning?
I could not tell.
I did not care.
My room just as dark
Lit by only a lampshade
Cream light splayed
Over my ceiling.
I sat, bent over my table
Where a candle illuminated
My crazed eyes
My frantic hands
Writing.
Scribbling words
In an endless stream
On pieces of paper
My hand ached so much
That my head tuned out the pain
The pain I'd feel in the aftermath
Of my spontaneity.
Of course,
I could feel nothing now
except raw and almost unbearable passion.
I'm bent
Passionate beyond belief
Exposed to my true love
I'm writing everything
My every thought
Insane or wise
Poetry or strings of words
I'm stringing together
Every stray thought in my head.
And loving it.
I'm hunched over
Yet another piece of paper
Yet another candle
Dry, empty pens on the floor
Wondering when will I
Stop.
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