
an urge to write a whole book
is swamping me harder than ever tonight
i never really cared about writing
specifically for a book to be published
writing to me isn’t about the reader
it’s not even about me as an individual
it’s just one of nature’s phenomena
that occurs without warning or explanation
unpredictable, absolutely marvelous,
sometimes relentlessly destructive,
nevertheless breathtaking and transcendental
but right now
for the past few months actually
there have been these hands knocking
on all my doors
sometimes they even bang and beg
for me to just open the damn doors
and let the inspiration flood in
and allow it to form its clouds
on the skies of my world
and i have
i have opened my doors
more than once
but every single time
what i begin to pour
ends unfinished
always undone
always half distressed
never fully expressed
never ever relieved
i don’t know what it is
but i don’t think i’ll ever
stop opening my doors
it will happen one day
hundreds of pages will be filled
by those very hands that left several writings incomplete
and i will not only revel in it and all through it
but i will also dare to share it the moment
it births