I don’t know how to write.
I WRITE, but I don’t know how.
It just comes to me, like a wave, or a spark;
flows from the pen or my fingers
scattering across computer keys
or dancing over touch screens
my fingernails clicking against the glass.
I write, but only when I need to.
The long and distant days of forcing words and language
from this dry and weary head
broke me; like draining ink from a pen long run out.
The tiredness I feel each day and each hour
stems from those early morning and late night
scurries, pounding coffee bean and anxious twitches
as I tried to squeeze out genius like precious droplets of gold.
Three years and I was skin and bone
a husk of a woman too old for her body
the spark was gone, energy non-replenishable
I don’t suppose they understand.
I am borne of the spark and the spark feeds me,
even as its poison creeps through my veins
the spark keeps me driving
a life-force bigger than I.
Energy and emotion, it must go somewhere;
so I write and I write when I feel it build until my soul feels swollen
and heavy. Until it feels pregnant with the spark.
The writing is a release
when I am not full the writing does not come. That is how
it should be.
They tell me it is good. They praise me.
They ask me how. I do not know
the answers. All I know is when it is time, I will write
that is the only constant.
We cannot decide
when divine inspiration touches us
or guides us
through magnetic fields
and broken wings
and pouring rain.
We can only decide to co-operate.
We are but slaves to the spark.
Vickye Fisher © May 2016. All Rights Reserved.