Once upon a time, I was too exhausted and miserable and head-achey and downright sick to do anything but writhe on my bed. My hands didn’t care. I stumbled from my room with a cry of “Almighty help me, but I must write!” And so for the next slow and painful hour, I wrote the following. (For poetry crafted at times less miserable, try my archives.)
Drawn like a moth to the hearthfire of life,
My fingers cannot stray for long.
Were the keys and the pen like the blades of a knife,
Even so would my hands there belong.
Though the red ran rich as it sometimes does
On the page in invisible stain,
I could not keep my members from scribing because
‘Tis their life, e’en when also their pain.
They rouse me from comfort, they rouse me from peace,
They drag me from apathy’s lair,
My fingers, a-twitching with words to release,
Draw me into—or out of?—a snare.
Their passion is dauntless, their focus ill-turned
From the pen and the print on the page.
Were I ill in my bed, then my needs would be spurned
For their hunger would whirl in a rage.
Up and out, they would hound me, demanding the chance
To pour out their life force and mine,
Then to dip their quill deep in that pool and, perchance
To craft words on which others might dine.
My fingers dart, pause, and adjust on the keys,
Building poem and tale and remark.
They care not to care for me, do as they please,
While I languish, they fly on their lark.
And galvanized sore by these too-restless hands,
Moved, aye, from a coveted rest,
I feel my whole being revived by their plans
And find that fool passion knows best.