Salvation

No one wants to write.

It is a curse, truly

to have voices 

live inside of your head

demanding to be let out 

but only if in the form of blood ink

You have become a slave 

only coming upon this realization

when it's 1 in the morning

and you're running on coffee

you have headphones in your ears that have long stopped singing

and your fingers are moving at the speed of light 

never fast enough

not quite...

You rush to get the words onto the page because

it's only a matter of time before

they leave again

and then you wait...

wondering what else you were born for 

What is your purpose in life outside of 

blue lines, white paper and black ink?

So you sit at the writing desk

pen in hand

gripped too tight

music from your headphones

too loud

You're trying to come up with an original way to describe brown eyes or thunder

and you realize

as your eyes burn

and your hands tremble

and the sun rises 

and the world wakes, no longer yours and yours alone 

that this curse

has become your salvation.