Buckle down and write

It’s really not that hard;

Strap yourself to the chair

and let the soul tear itself to bits;

I hear the voice curse me as I  put quill to paper,

but I smile instead and watch as my hands move without shackles on the wrists.

Where have you been? Eh, what were you doing?

Cold, raspy, sardonic- the voice drips with anger and bitterness.

‘I’ve been right here. There is nowhere to go, except deeper within’, I can hardly hear my soft tone amidst the anger, yet I know it’s audible.

If you stop writing, you will die.

The writer in you will wilt, move into a coma, never to return.

This time, the voice has a sadistic edge, laced with triumph.

‘My hands may be fenced behind work and life;

My thoughts may be taken over by bills and goals;

My  days may be consumed by petty tasks and trifling chores;

But my heart will never stop writing

Not in the worst storm or even in the face of the greatest tragedies.

Deep inside, where it all comes together, the voice that matters will be heard.

Every single moment.

My voice.