Sometimes its hard to be a writer.
When the words start to pile up at 2 AM,
and the voices in your head start screaming to be let out.
So you toss away any notion of sleep,
with a fistful of covers.
As you scramble for a pen,
and the back of a crumpled piece of paper.
ignoring the light switch
you know you won’t be able to find.
Crouching on the one patch of floor lit by the stars.
And you write.
The words flow so fast you’re no longer sure what your writing,
but you have to get it down to appease the voices yelling in your head.
Eventually you run out of paper.
So you scribble words onto the backs of your hands and up your arms.
Palaces grow and oceans destroy at each bend of your knees.
Old Gods die and new ones rise on the bottoms of your feet.
And when you're done,
when the voices have gone silent,
and your heart stops racing,
you crawl back to bed exhausted.
And tomorrow you won’t remember what you wrote.
The few scraps of paper will tell only half the story.
The rest has faded into your skin.
A story only you will know.
You and the stars.