My husband walks in on us
and says, “You are going too far:
Saturday, Sunday, Monday,
and now today too?”
He doesn’t understand
the pull of the muse
when my mind goes blind
seeing, hearing nothing.
Nothing but words begging
to be caressed into being,
literary waterfalls decimating
the dam keeping them inside.
The notepad, my accomplice,
knows of my dalliances
but I can always trust it will
lay low when the letters come.
It enables my poetic addiction,
recording the constant flow
of voluptuous vowels,
captivating consonants.
I should stop this sudden storm
but waves of luscious language
crash against mental shores
and my will washes away.
I soar in the ecstasy of expressions
alluring adjectives arouse me
as volatile verbs explode into existence
and rattle me senseless.
The poems consume me
flitting fingers typing until 1am
high on mesmerizing metaphors
and sensuous similes.
Finally, I sit back in my chair
relaxing my wrists and hands
as the final rush hits the spot
and I sigh with satisfaction.
The waves of words recede
allowing me to breathe
letting the salt sit in my sands
as I wait for the next rush.
Photo by Chris Greene from FreeImages
