The Dance Of The Writer

The time seems to slow down as the fatigue starts to extend its reaches across my body.

It feels like the world is turning inside out and slowing down with no hint of when it is going to end.

I try to jot these final thoughts on paper.
However, my hand seems to shiver and shake.

I feel my eyes slowly droop,
As my heart takes on a steadier rhythm
Forcing myself to write
I look down at the blank page
Seeing words and sentences that have not yet been formed.

I know what this while look like before it is even began.
I know the repercussions that it while bring,
All I have to do is write it down.

"Put my pen to the page."
I tell myself in unorthodox rhythms.
"Write what you see in your mind’s eye and then you may retire."

Slowly at first,
My pen meets the paper.
And I find that I am mesmerized,

Not by the words that I am forming,
But of the solid shadow of the pin
As it glides across the paper

If I am writing actual words
Or if there is nothing but scribbles across the page.

I find that I am the conductor of the dance of the pen across the paper
leading them on as long as the notion is in my head to write.

Pen to paper,
Paper to pen
this is the dance that I control.

I seem to loss myself in the simplicity of the motion,
And soon find that I have forgotten what I was writing, or why.

I stop the dance with some reluctance to see if there are any words that have created sentences, or sentences that have created paragraphs.

I find that I am shocked to see the purest form of my heart
Staring at me from the sheet of once blank paper.

Moreover, the satisfaction of this allows me to close my eyes passing into the oblivion of sleep where the dance of the paper and pen never ends.