You see, when I pick up a pen

it’s just like yawning.

Words come out like so much air:

a twitch of the muscles.

 

Sometimes, it’s like sneezing.

No warning, just a burst of energy and

phrases go flying, airborne.

Then I double over,

try to collect myself,

and look at what ended up on the page.

 

Now and again,

it’s as though my ears pop.

I hear things differently-

sounds morph to fit

black ink between blue lines,

and click cleanly into place.

 

Or like stretching,

reaching as far as I can

until my limbs take on a life of their own

and go farther.

My body lifts,

turned into taffy someone pulled too long.

My arms are drawn tight, aching,

snatching at a dangling thread,

then pulling it in slowly.

Push, then release,

and I find something.

 

Something good?

Maybe, but something I need.

Knotted or knitted,

silky or frayed,

it winds between my fingers-

and I hold on to it.