I have to write.
Like a snake sliding across the ground,
My pen has to glide along the page.

Like an innate aspect of who I am
My hand has to move
As it pours out the words
Welling up from my heart
And the depths of my Soul’s well
They pour like water
Down my arms, into my hand-clutching pen
Making it glisten
And slide.

Like my lungs have to breathe
And my heart has to beat
My hand has to write.

No more.
No less.
Just that.

Like the artist has to paint
And the dancer, dance
Like the musician lost in his score
I have to write.

That is all.

© Angela Dunning, 17 September 2016

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