My pen has sprouted legs and is now prancing across the page
Like it’s an insect, the ones that look like twigs.
It’s writing those things from my head, the ones I’ve been unable to construct words for.
I can’t make it stop.
You are watching it, spilling my brains across the page in inky spatters .
I see you look at it, and then at me
And as you run towards the door
Away from me
I close my eyes and imagine you running towards me.
Was it the pen? or
Was it something I said?
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“The creative process is a process of surrender, not control.” Julia Cameron 1 Corinthians 13:3 "If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing."
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