What I do.

It is late and things are still.
Though I am awake, turning.
Inside there is something burning.
It calls for me; it has its own will.

It must be abated
and I will be elated.

For it is the urge to write.

And write I shall.
I rise and enter the quiet. 

I start a blank page --
the urge at the level of rage --
and I begin to satiate it.

I put on music, soft,
reflective and aloft
I hear the Muse.
It tell me to not confuse
a distraction for the
idea.

I listen. Good insight.
I let the words pour.
"More, more!"
I say, to no one in
particular.

The urge slows.
I am one with the piece.
And, gradually, my
soul leaps out and becomes
one with the forever. 

It is late. I am done.
All things are still.