The poet harvested her seeds of inspiration,

And plummeted deep into the shallow surface

To expose what subtly lie underneath.

The veneer of pretense and fabricated laughter...

Her desire was to let go.

What was once a spore of an intangible idea

Has the the potential to blossom into an incredible work of art

This is the process that is also known as writing.

Before our poet was inspired,

Her weary eyes sought for new sites,

And her tiresome lungs longed for oxygen.

She’d took deep breathe in

And become conscious of an ambiguous, nervous tension

Swishing around somewhere unknown in her body.

The tick tock time bomb of surpressed emotion

Continued to tick away

And she was left in a sea of exasperation,

In a desperate need for an exit

Or at least, some kind of liberation.

She heard this little narrator inside her head speak,

“Quick, grab that pen. Before it’s too late.

This will be your remedy, this will save you.”

Her hand greeted the pen and the pen greeted the paper

And she, the writer—bled through the ink

In this present moment,

Her silence could no longer speak for itself

For this was her trice of lucid expression

A release, you could call it

A release of all her ideas, all the pain, all the love…

All of it, splattered onto a blank canvas for the world to see

This, she said spoke aloud; this is the freedom that writing gives to me.