Beethoven had it and Mozart did too.
It drove them to their limits and is it driving me too?
A force of incredible energy and creativity that comes from the murky depths of my soul
I don’t know which part of me the words do flow.
My fingers dutifully dance out the letters maybe they are the writers, not me.
Fingers have a brain and memorize the words and put them in some kind of order;
They tell the story my mind is backing out.
My eyes visualise the pattern of the poem.
My voice, inarticulate with words, is muted.
Nerve impulses fly through my arm, inpatient to type the words, which make me, me.
© Isobel Knight