I write.

I write.

I write and the words leave my head like water bursts through a broken pipe

eager to not be contained

to lessen the pressure

to stop the spinning

and to just 

be free.

free of the grasp of my mind 

that can swirl and swirl words and thoughts around 

over 

and over 

and over again 

until it’s such a muddled, tangled mess 

that no one gets out alive, 

no one.

and as the words spill on to that page 

they crash and twist and overflow every line

and they just keep coming

my hands don’t move fast enough and it doesn’t even bother these words that are just so damn delighted to be free.

sometimes the tangles are so bad that there is a pause in the flow, or a sputter

and I finally take an inhale

exhale

inhale and they flow again 

sometimes faster than before and as beautiful and perfectly imperfect as any product of mother nature.

eventually it stops. 

usually quickly. abruptly. 

I wonder if it’s over and I wait. 

and then I feel that wave of something I rarely feel crash over me and leave me there 

alone.

still.

calm.

ever so briefly at peace with myself.

with this world. 

but

I yearn to feel. 

so I read back over my words.

again

and again

and again.

until every feeling and thought is carved into my soul in bold and deep lines

until every typo is fixed 

until I am convinced I put on paper an illustration with words that exactly captures that knotted up mess that was in my mind.

swirling. 

dueling.

fighting with itself, with my heart, with my spirit. 

and when I am satisfied

I stop.

and again,

the world is still.

for now.