Shawn L. Bird

The poetry is loud tonight,

smashing and crashing through

synapses of my neocortex,

drowning the bovine bellows

of my bedmate.

Short stories are shouting.

Poetry is proclaiming itself.

Words are wailing.

They are insistent

in the seams between sleep,

and will not quieten

until I write them down.

.

.

(This is post 1717 on the blog.  It was very loudly proclaiming itself when I tried to go to bed last night, and would not stop until I got out my little book kept beside the bed, turned on the little book light, and wrote down the essentials).  Do you have this problem, too?