I need to write a poem.
It itches.
My skin crawls like a butterfly pupa warped beneath a cacoon ready to burst magnificent colors into the smallest spaces of sky.
It burns.
Like wicked red sin glistening with temptation from a desired fruit.
I can't.
The reflective mirrors of my words upon this page, screen, or stage hide reality and emphasize the illusion that I have a point for writing at all.
It threatens.
At my heels where waves grip fiercely, dragging me to an unknown, to a place I will eventually swim along.
A place I will swim alone.
Revived by that cooling bath of water because I wrote a poem!