In order to write about it, you have to feel it.
Down to the marrow of your bones.
You have to touch it & taste it
While wandering through the unknown.
You must look at it
With open eyes
Through the subterfuge
And beneath the disguise.
You let it completely cover you
The cloak of dark and light
Suspended in the daytime
Running wildly at night.
The barrage of mixed emotions
Confusion of fight or flight
As the pen assaults the paper
And feverishly you write.
The words come pouring out of you
Like lava when it flows
Bursting forth onto the pages
Charring the surface, don’t you know.
The ink spills out
Like blood on a field
There are no white flags
Your sword won’t yield.
Paragraphs fill pages
They are the canons of war
Laying on this parchment
Not inside you anymore.
Some of us writers
Don’t unravel a plot
It’s not until the pen is dry
That we know what we’ve got.
Pause a moment
Look around, you’ll see
Writers always carry paper
And pens for company.
