The Pen

I sit
silently waiting for the words to come.
A nerve twitches.
Impatience
Learning how to wait.
The words will come.
Flowing out of me
like ink from the pen
smoothly
effortlessly.
Spilling out
like an overturned milk carton.
Spewing out
like so much smoke and ash
from a volcano
Followed
by violently
flowing
lava.
The words will come.
They will overtake me
I cannot run
Nowhere to hide
from this madness
that is my brain.
I must write.
Thoughts come to me
that are not my own.
I am only the instrument –
the pen.
The thoughts, the words,
They overtake me and I write.
My hand moves
I look up the page
at line after line of writing.
Where did that come from?
I was only waiting
impatiently waiting
for words to appear.
And there they are
As if by miracle
Inspired not by thought
but by my moving hand.