The Other Side







pick up a pen, but why?


a subtle urge moves you,


words once trapped in darkness, scramble,


grappling and stirring around inside your head,


lying in your chest, bubbling and churning 


like a slow moving vortex of something,


but you don't know what it is,


and you write,


the words flow out like nothing before.


you are not a writer, why?


the days have been moving by slowly,


you chalked it up to exterior, outlying changes,


and it feels good to put the pen down,


but a strange elusive spirit captures your attention,


and you write


and you write


and you can not stop, as you learn the other side 


to life,


to love,


to people,


to the side you were never told of.



11:23 AM 7/21/2013 ©





Author's Notes/Comments: 

a poem about writing.

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