I want to write, itís a need; no a desire, like one for a man.
Once a taste, you can only go so long without, and wonder how you ever did.
A pounding in the back of my head with things I want to say, a burning at my fingertips, a longing on my lips.
What is my excuse? Why can I not just take a pen in hand and fulfill this need? Why am I torturing myself this way?
A celibate writer with a desire like a fireplace fire, so hot but so caged.
I take my ink and sit down and try to drink the moment and capture it on paper.
Something inside me grows sick, rebels at the thought; something doesnít feel right; like a virgin on her second night.
When did I get here? Why are my thoughts now so unclear, this used to be my relaxing joy?
My fingers stiffen with the pen; no longer want to flow across smooth paper, my thoughts dry up leaving me fighting with myself; do I force this?
The pounding has stopped the moment is gone, Iím already moved on, another moment not captured, another thought not properly swirled on my tongue. I barely remember when this used to be fun.
I crumple the dry sheets and stand to leave, nothing happening here for me.