There is only the sound of scratching,
The pen moves rough along the lines,
The words come harsh
And I am closed.
I push the thoughts, forcing ideas onto blankness;
Like feeding an unhungry child
Or walking a cat on a leash.
At best, the task is difficult.
I try to look inside, sort through jumbled structure,
Sift away things that have little meaning
To find truth in life – what it is that really matters?
There is a cloudiness in this work.
The pen flows
And one line appears, or it could be just one word.
It is the start of something connected.
I feel the pulse within
And I come to life.
But it is not me.
Something rushes through me, sweat shows in dots.
Tears stream on my face, laughter rises and goose bumps form.
Trancelike, I find rhythm.
When done, I fall into the back of my seat.
I later read the prose and wonder
Where did that come from? How did I do that?
A spark ascends – a realization that
I, a simple conduit, am intertwined to all
And to nothing, linked to my Beloved
And with this
…I can co-create.