Chaotic words whirl about in my heart,
Thundering, Whispering, Yelling, Sighing.
I must write them down. They scream
To be let out, and I am their only outlet.

I am not their master; they come from deep
Within the soul of the universe, the threads
Of which everything is woven.
I merely write them down.

Burning, they spiral through all feelings,
And I am caught up in the emotion
Of their power, their movement.
My mind races to keep up with them.

I write and type, scribbling and mistyping,
Hurrying to catch the wisps they leave
Behind as those words streak through
All thought, all feeling, all experience.

After they have left my hand,
A sudden emptiness overwhelms me.
I cannot change what I have written,
For these words hold their own entity.

A poet lives on these words.
I live on these words. The torrent,
The release, the emptiness, and
The excitement as it begins once more.