What happens to me when,
I write all the words on a page and
it brands my brain then,
I watch it flow.
Stuck in my own head knowing, nowhere to go.
All this stories, roaring and consuming
not even sure how they're blooming but I keep on going.
Not even remembering when/how it started, not sharing my heart in, something I never met.
Because I can hear them, in my soul it brings me a chill when, they all yell to get their story told.
And I unfold, to claim their life against my own, I am a simple vessel to their known, and they use my hand to keep this curse.
Of shallow and ego, that I can create a world far from we know, that I can blind my own life and use theirs instead.
And I confess, I read this in all great writers who had their head, swirling with characters but it felt too great, to leave.
Believe, believe when I say that I try to flee! But this characters are painted in me, can't you see? I love them so much to be, anything else than my reality.
But like I said, I have no hour, no how or when. I was born this way, if only I used this talent for my own feelings to express, but I have nothing to say. I rather let people read what my characters have to say. Don't you see?
It's all just a writing game...