SCREAM, SHOUT, IMPRESS

 

Whispers from object shout to me as I pass

Singing, humming their tune

Telling me, describing themselves to me.

Taking it no longer, I sprint into my house to my desk.

Flinging out the notebook. The writing begins.

Scribbling down the verbs and noun

nonsense pops from the paper as the pen flows on.

It keeps coming, more and more.

Now the objects stop speaking, the air is still.

The hand holding the pen does not pause. The brain no longer thinks nor uses imagination,

the ideas,

the stories,

the characters,

the conversations,

the meaning of it all just comes out of nowhere.

The pen, it continues on quickly running out of space, automatically moving to the next line.

And Then the next, then the next.

A paragraph.

Turn of the page. Soon pages are left behind.

No not blank pages. Pages with words. Pages full of meaning.

A story can now be made out.

No! That is not enough.

Thump, Thump, Thump.

My heart is not content. It wiggles and squirms with excitement.

I write not with the intention of attention. I write so all the things that can not speak can be heard. The goal is to surprise myself as I reread my work. 

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