There is a way that words
fall onto paper like the tears
of the rainstorm
in the spring
The way that they flow
like a river, overflowing
from the sources, unable to
contain its multitudes
How sometimes there are
dry spells that seem to go on
forever until they are over
and forgotten amidst floods
Words that soak into your soul
your skin your heart your bones
never letting go of your blood
and your brain
It's these times when the outside
world might as well not exist for
there are things that need to
be written and written and written
This is all to say that when I say I am busy
sometimes what I mean is that there is
something within me that will not be quiet until it
is freed upon the page like water off a duck's back
