voice

Flow
Ah the joys of a well-
Sharpened pencil
The comforting, soft,
Rubbing sound of lead
On paper

In tune with
The relaxed breathing
Of the writer

There is a feeling
When you write
You write it down
As you think it up
You don’t even feel
The precise muscles in your fingers,
Wrist and arm
Rippling under your skin
You don’t notice
How you silently mouth the words
And
You don’t even write
The letters
In poetry, there is no w,
No s,
No b,
Not even words
No that’s
No so’s
No of’s
There are phrases
No periods
Unless wanted.
No grammar.
You just think
And capture these….
Shreds of your soul
For others to read
For you to remember

There is only you
Pencil
Paper
And the great unknown