How many of us are there?
God only knows
Those of us whose souls
bludgeon us from within
until released by the pen
in the form of words on the written page.
Perhaps some, like me, have tried to stop the flow
causing a glut, an intense pounding pressure
which grows into a sickness of the mind.
We suffer until we let it
flow forth again after many dark days.
The dark days, however,
produce a richness, a depth of expression
of which sanity is not capable.
We wonder, is it really worth it?
Do we even have a choice?
Perhaps some of us learn
the slightest shadow
signals the need for a letting.
Oh, the fortunate ones!
The ones whose words assemble as a coherent story,
a twisted mystery, a tale of love or adventure
tickling the ears of agents, publishers, consumers
relieving the creator of the daily grind
so that there is only the letting.
The letting becomes living.
It becomes a vocation, a craft, a commodity.
Some say that they are as disturbed
as those of us who continue
the toil of our days
while still the pressure of letting remains relentless.
Their words pursue them as fiercely
their stories rise to life within them
their inner voice gaping, exposed and vulnerable.
Be that as it may,
I'd still like to try.