They Flow

I come home Throw my backpack down I sit at my desk Take a deep breath Pick up a pencil And begin to write. All the ideas from today, All the people I’ve met, All the things I have read Are yelling at me, Clamoring Inside my head. They need to get out. As the graphite crumbles onto the paper, My ideas are released Like air escaping from a balloon. The tension is let out of my body My shoulders relax My pencil flows, As if I am painting a masterpiece. Today, I write, I met a dark man who told me he was in love… Why? They all ask. Why do you write? If I don’t, I say, The ideas inside me die. Until I’m left with just the cold wind blowing Inside my heart.