Sometimes it hurts so much that I can’t care.
That I can’t care what I write, or how.
Sometimes the little bird sat on my shoulder too long,
and got impatient, and did not whisper into my ear, but scream..
Did not sit on my shoulder sweet and light,
but did sink his claws deep into my flesh, to get a hold, to get my attention.
And forces me to listen, forces me to receive his message,
forces me to accept his gift, and to write it down.
Forces me against my will.
Forces me even though I have neither peace nor time.