How Shakespeare Must Have Felt About Writing

THE WRITER IN ME

My heart shivers for a computer,

a keyboard, a pen;

My blood boils with themes,

ideas and things that demand to be

written.

My hands just want to scribble and

my head to pour out;

I am like a blocked fountain,

a plugged volcano,

that pleads and struggles to erupt

and release.

My body feels full almost to bursting

point;

My whole being is like a library of

unwritten and unread stories.

I feel like a fish out of water,

I cannot breath until I swim in ink.

If all writers feel like I do,

then there are many walking volcanoes

and plugged fountains.

I feel like a candle that is not lit

in darkness;

I would burn and burn till all the

wax in me is flowing freely all around:

I feel like, I feel like,

Oh, I do not know how to describe it

anymore.

Others are living their lives,

mine is incomplete,

trapped in a body full of substance;

incomplete til every visible particle in

me is smeared on paper,

then from the books I will be born anew;

now, I am just conceived.

Written by Isabella

1997

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