I'm Dying to Write

I'm dying to write.

It feels like a kettle in my belly. I feel it boiling away, thrashing inside of me. Out it wants out.

But my time has not been my own.

All the echoing voices require my attention and the kettle keeps boiling. I must write. I must point pen to paper. I must lay ink down, press finger tips to keys and make more then the rumblings of my mind. I need to make a story, pressed the walls of my imagination and see what takes form.

If I don't I can become stony with emotional weight, or lash out and burn someone who gets too close. I become uncomfortable and even work can trip and fall over a distracted mind. I can feel it. Its been boiling faster now.

The changes coming, the changes left behind because there was no second to look at them. I feel it boiling inside me.

And the kettle will no longer boil if I can pour it into a cup. It becomes settled, natural, tea.

I need to write. I need to make the words and pages in my mind come alive.