The Writer’s Spirit

She takes over me
I have no control
She pierces the thin wall of my sanity to
Bring the words out of me
And they flow, like
Powerful
Beautiful
Blissful
Rain
She soars out through me
Forcing all the hidden
Jagged edges and sensational thoughts and hopes and pain
To emerge
All at once
Ecstasy
I am merely a muse
A muse for myself
The side of me I
Do not know
Only She can show me who that is
All that is locked up
Buried and
Pressed deep down into
The most secret
Parts of my
Soul
She
Staples wings to my thoughts and
Teaches them to fly
To burst out of my head and down
Down to where my hand kisses the
Paper
With words I never knew
I had
She
Digs her nails deep under my skin
Searching searching searching
For the results of my silent
Observance and
Reflection
She grasps the thoughts that
Accompanied them and
Rips them out for me
One by one
Because She knows I cannot
Release them
Any other way
She’s a kind spirit
My writer
Though She takes control of me
I could not survive without Her
She comes and She goes
Each time teaching me
More and more beautiful things
About myself
She teaches me about
Her
She cries
Begging to be
Heard
She sings me the song of my own voice
Over and over and over
An endless melody
She teaches me who I am and
Who I want to be
What I want the world to be
My writer is me
The outward parts of me
Colliding in a fantastic way with
The hidden ones which
Run from the light
Because they know of the dark
Within the shadows
My writer takes over me
So that one day
I might take over myself and
Move forward
And
Teach someone
Else
She’s a kind spirit
She makes me write because
She knows
She knows without Her to help me release my words
I would slip away
And
All of my hidden words and the
Worlds within them
Would vanish
With me

-Megan M. Phillips

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