Nothing compels me to write like the music of poetry. A good poem is a drug. Even as it echoes to silence in my ear and fades upon my tongue I must have more. One more verse.
I take up pen and cast my own lines, one after another, thinking ‘this one—this one.’ Yet my lines don’t give me that shivering buzz silver sliver quick rushing through veins making my heart pound filling my brain white light pupils blowing wide open hands shaking world accelerating in its orbit flash.
Another line. Another phrase. Another word. They drop onto the page ripping the paper with their dead weight until the page is useless, pieces tearing away to nothing. I don't stop. I am pursuing that mercury moment.
It’ll show. It has to.