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