It begins like a whisper.

Something so small clicks,

it’s almost missed

and yet,

shivers wave over your skin

like a mist.

You sense something emerge

An impulse,

an urge

to purge,

to get out

what’s inside:

the good, the bad,

the ugly,

And leave it behind

for someone else to find.

There is one path

A Writer walks,

there is no money

there are no clocks.

A Writer goes alone,

trudging through the unexplored,

and towards the unknown.

You go

Because there is no other choice,

this is where you found your voice.

This is where you speak freely

conspicuously

meticulously

ridiculously.

When you’re writing,

you can catch fire,

reinvent a memory,

show us your desire.

for poetry never lies

about

what hides

Inside.