When the poetry flows through you,
it waits for no perfect moment,
there is no convenience mustered
to await your finding
paper and a pen.
When the words come,
you just know,
you feel the syllables rising from
the tips of your toes,
exploding out of your fingers,
propelling you into an
unsuspected state of
delirium as your mouth
silently forms the shapes
you spit onto your notebook,
brave hands twisting and
turning purple letters
round themselves,
brain melting and oozing
out into similes and metaphors,
pictures popping from
stories told and
secrets disclosed until
in one final swoop
the moment passes,
your work is done and
the pride and fear and
vulnerability and anxiety
you just birthed
stares back at you,
its ambiguous smirk
leaving you breathless.
