To write, or not to write.
To be heard, or to be silent.
To feel or not to feel.
I could refrain from writing,
I could choose to be silent...
But I am not.
I am writing because I want to.
I am writing because I want to be heard.
I am writing, because I feel.
At any given moment, an emotion will present itself,
Like a poison injected into my veins, rapidly spreading.
One so strong, it shall overtake my mind, body, and soul.
And when that moment comes my body will spring into action.
Without any instruction on my part. By then, control isn’t even an imprint in the sky.
A pen, a pencil, a piece of coal, paper, a napkin, a stone- anything will do.
And I shall let my ideas flow.
My arm becomes a machine, unaffected by time and the weariness that comes.
My hand becomes alive, moved by the overflowing juices of creativity.
My mind- once so shy- opens up its petals towards the light that shines from the core of my heart.
And when the victim has finally been slaughtered:
When it’s been drowned by the valleys of ink,
And burned by the friction of my hand;
When the poison has run its course and ejected itself from my being;
My arm will wind down, and my hand will cease all movement.
My mind will turn in on itself once more, preparing for hibernation.
At last, I shall be free.