Entry 041

Picture (c) Google

Anticipation of the Writer

A spark of intelligence lights up the night.

Closed doors swing open at the possibilities.

The retired writer prepares to pick up their pen,

Anxiously awaiting the glorious moment.

When they thought their worst work was done at night,

They were wronged,

As it came to them deep in the darkness,

Swaying in their mind,

Forcing them to pick up the pen and write it down.

I said I'd never write,

Not like this.

I told myself I couldn't do it,

It wasn't possible,

I had to give up then before I got my hopes up

Just to lose them again.

The writer, unable to contain their excitement any longer,

Grabs the pen and writes,

Writes, writes, writes,

Never stops,

The anticipation is over,

Now there's just not enough time.

Why did the writer ever stop writing?

I was a fool to ever think

I could live without this;

Never again.

Never again will I force myself away

From my passion;

I may not be able to turn it into anything other than that,

But I don't care.

Never again will the writer put down their pen.

"Anticipation of the Writer," (c) Rebecca Grapentine, April 17th, 2011