I am antsy,
words dancing consciously
across my subcscious
and making my fingers sing.
Every nerve ending screams at me
to free the words.
Oh how they scream!
Free me!
Choose me!
Mold, make me into something
other than the bees' wings' whisper
that flickers passed
thine mind's ear

These words
are wildfires.
they burn away the death
and again new life bring.
They are a never ending spring,
spring up from my soul,
making my bleed
ink from my fingertips
and bring new life to dead pages

I am peaceful,
sweet relief leaking through
the cracks in my walls.
I am no longer
locked tight
as I bleed ink onto dead pages
and bring new life
to my words
and myself.