Thursday, July 9, 2015


He asked me,
As we laid in bed,
His fingertips across my skin,
Rain closing in,
"When did you knew,
you where a writer?"
I giggled before,
My answer started,
"Oh darling,
You don't have a choice,
You see,
It is not a knowing thing,
Is a either are or aren't kind,
So simple,
If I do not write,
i will not be able,
To concentrate,
For there are too many,
Thoughts floating around,
I will not be able,
To fall asleep,
Cause there are untied strings,
Inside my head,
But most of all,
I will not be happy,
For I miss it, I have to, I need to,

So maybe it's more about a need that demands
to be served then wanting to be?

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