You sit down to write
And there is a sloth about your neck.
The words flow like marbles, dropping individually to the paper, dammed back
By the droop of your eyelids
And the tremors in your hands.
The face of the clock is blurring
But you know it isn’t late enough
So you push the heavy creature aside
And you keep writing.
You sit down to write
And there are moths fluttering in your chest
Making a home inside your ribs
Lifting, everything becoming that much lighter
And the words float out of you
Like each is a single gossamer insect
Seeking the light.
You sit down to write
And there’s a dragon clawing at your throat.
You can feel its breath sting your eyes
And the words roar out of your pen
Burning the page
Then extinguished by the tears that quickly follow.
It escapes from you in bursts of heat
And bloody anger
And it flies away
Leaving behind the taste of ash in your throat
And the promise of return.
You sit down to write
And there is something inside you
Deeper than the moths.
If you turn your head quickly enough
You can see feathers
And hear the beat of fragile wings.
This is the most valuable creature
And the only one
That will not fly away.
Treasure it.
