Why I Write

Sometimes the words creep out

like a five-year old asking for water

being told to go back to bed for the third time

cranky and demanding.

Sometimes the words rush out like

stale air from a popped balloon,

random and rude,

surprised by their own loud noise.

Sometimes the words stay inside my head,

ricocheting around the pool table in there,

bouncing off walls, hitting one other hard,

until that eight-ball drops into the pocket.

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One Response to Why I Write

  1. Barbara Toboni says:

    Great poem, Donna. I know just what you mean!

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