Muse whispers quiet and calm,

   write, write                                        

fingers itch to encircle a pen,
to tap. tap. tap
out the rhythm of the thoughts
pounding the drums of imagination
the blood smokes behind eyelids blind with the wanting;
dreamscapes beg for release into a brighter reality
scratching onto paper flying off the edge
writing prophecies on paper thin
skin, papercuts burning with the trust
that words can heal

write, write                                   

feel at home in your skin
embrace the hope that they will understand
when they read your soul scrawled hastily across
post-it notes and scrap paper and envelopes
and pray that the wanting ceases
and then write,write,write
until the well runs dry and the muse sleeps,

The End

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