Writing Only Stokes the Fire

A soldier whose weapon of choice
Is a noble pen and notebook paper
Would say scribbling poetry between the
Delicate azure-blue lines brings them
Peace, lets them pour forth their
Emotions in a strategic string of
Lines of perfect metaphors, but
When a poem takes root in my mind,
All I want is to write forever, until
No more words have been left unsaid.

A warrior whose sounds of clanging swords
Are actually the fevered clack of
Fingers finessing prose from the keys
Of their computer, and whose battle cries
Are shouts of, “Yes! That’s the word
I’m looking for!” would tell you it brings them joy
To tell their own story, to be in charge
Of everything that happens to their characters,
But when a story is born inside my head,
It only makes me want to keep telling it
Until my mind and soul are completely drained.

Yes, it’s true what they say—writing
Is nourishment for the soul and rest
For the spirit. But it’s also the croon
Of a seductive lover, the promise of
Honey-sweet lips to touch your own.
It’s a sip of wine that lets your mind
Open like a blooming flower and
Wants to keep you mired in its haze
Forever. It’s love, it’s want, it’s need,
It’s desire. You can say what you want,
But writing only stokes the fire.