the pen seems to crash onto the table.
her tired hand shaking finds it way under the pillow....
no sleep for days as she has been putting it all down.
as if not to be able to stop.
everything she sees, everything she hears, and everything she does,
inspires riddles and rhymes to flow from inside.
its a gift...

some people say she has talent.
some people say she is good...
but they don't understand the insanity of an unstoppable mind.
inspiration they call it...
she laughs and it is unnerving...
inspiration...no...

she explains that someone has turned the volume to full blast
on every single one of her senses.
beauty is more beautiful and smells are much sweeter
and sadness cuts deeper and pain is.....
unbearable.

a line or two in her head
repeats over and on until she puts it down.

but she cannot stop at just one line or two,
no the words keep coming and before long she has filled a page.
the mistake she makes is rereading
for one line she wrote in her comatic fury
will start the dance all over again.
and she writes....and she hopes....
she can sleep a bit before she is again
plagued by a drive, a desire, a need
to write.....

I woke before the day, when the moon still meant night

Where a cold shiver had met my back, why did I fright?

Was it that, there was something, I couldn't seem, to see, that left my guardian in still?

There was a sour flavour in the air, so stale, and yet so colourful

A drowning sense may devour, my nose wrenched of pure sulphur

Or was it my comatic imagination, my brain still so tired.

Then all of a sudden I heard a gasp, could it belong to a vengeful soul?

"Who have I wronged enough to hurt me this much, to leave my will an empty hole."

The trees had then rustled a mocking screech

I'd soon fall to the floor, begging I could scream, except my throat remained dry

I'd sit there tortured by the silence and lack thereof by what I beg to simply be an invading dream

But know instead that "No, this must just be my torment."

Why should I have to feel my heart? So loud, my beating guilt

Could it be because of the girl locked in my previously
built, chest

Under my bed

Where I wish I could still lay

Except however, despite my want, I must wait for my soon to come, internal dismay

For this night and therefore myself, are but a hurricane

This eerie vision of what is to be both the eye and the storm

Is leaving me externally worn.