It was the middle of the night,
I wasn't trying to write,
I was trying to sleep,
But I was trying to think,
But I was trying to sleep,
and on and on it went.
It was the middle of the night,
I wasn't trying to write,
I was trying to sleep,
But I was trying to think,
But I was trying to sleep,
And on and on it went.

My body was tired,
Spent.
But my mind kept on racing,
I was trying my best
To digest ,
Understand the chaos around me,
I was trying my best,
To digest:
Fear, anxiety,
Lack of clarity.
I wanted to be free!

I had all these unanswered questions,
All these unexpressed emotions,
And I had to let it out.

Overflow.
Like a cup filled by a slowly dripping tap,
I had had one drop too many,
And I spilled over.
I poured forth a noiseless song on a page,
To some a cacophony,
To me, a song-less symphony.
A one-part harmony,
A one-way dialogue,
But not a monologue.

These were not just words on a page,
They were pieces of my soul,
Finally given permission to express themselves,
Here on this page,
I spoke words to myself,
Not for anyone else-
These words spoke right back to me,
A discussion that freed me.

The rhythm might have been off,
It wasn’t a rhyme,
But free verse-
A type of overflow, free writing,
That you can’t reverse.
Once your souls spills out on the page,
You have set the stage,
You have freed something up,
A part of your spirit,
And you can’t lock it up again.

But the beauty, is you decide
Where the freed piece of your soul now goes.
Does it stay on the page,
Hidden from any sight but yours?
Or will you share the song-less soul song
To set other soul songs free to sing?

I shared that piece of my soul that I freed that night,
Albeit not for several months more.
But when I shared, I found that other souls were being set free,
And now this dialogue was happening with others,
Not just with me.

So I kept letting my pen dress naked pages
And my mouth open to read my poetry.
I found it sets me free,
To just be me,
And it sets others free,
To be who they want to be.