today I read a lot of
poems.
and fell
into a deep, deep hole
of doubt.
and wandered there
for a while.
then it hit me-
I cannot help the urge;
the writer inside me
is dying to break out.
but I denied the undeniable
fact again, and again
and again.
then my right hand rose
up and held the pencil,
and started writing:
“I write, I write, I write,
I write, I write, I write…”
but it was not enough,
the written words came
to life; I started
mumbling,
murmuring,
muttering – listening to myself,
hearing my mouth utter the words
I deny because I am scared, terrified! –
then I screamed the written words.
how silent were they, as silent
as pencil can be. I heard them
being written at first, but
screamed them to believe.
that was almost enough;
I cried.
and so I believed that
I write,
I write.