The Words

The fingers fall like bombs.
Each key is struck with constant rhythym.
The writer isn't even there.
He's just a vessel for the mind to unleash.

The rhyme doesn't matter.
The structure doesn't matter.
Punctuation, spelling, grammar:
It all takes a back seat.

The words just fly onto the page.
What was once a blank white space
Is now filled with words.
Words that invoke Thought;
Thought that invokes emotion.

The words keep falling and the writer's lost control.
The mind, the soul is the only thing there.
Unleashed onto the white space;
Free to speak to nobody and everybody all at once.

Anger, tension, stress, fear
Curiosity, caring, Loving.
It's all there
On the page.

It doesn't matter what anyone thinks.
The words talk.
They invoke.
They pull.

There's no time for editing.
The words are falling onto the page.
Solid keystrokes are seen in motion through the window to the world.

Every thing the author thinks
Is translated to words by his hands.
Conscious thought has no place here.
They must write, they live for it.

The once blank page is now filled with the author's soul.
Every thought;
Every emotion;
Relieved onto the blank canvas of the artist.

Relaxation fills.
The writer, the person behind the words
Is emptied.
And the poem is sent out,
And the poem, the words, take all the emotion.
The poem becomes the vessel
Ready to fill the next white void in the cycle...

The Reader

~Nick