two a.m.

three a.m.

the clock ticks on.

eight more hours to go. nothing written.

the blank screen overwhelmed his empty, broken mind.

i write because i have to, i write because i have to, i write because i have to, he tells himself over and over.

at this thought, the young poet that once was springs out from inside him.

whatever happened to writing because it is beautiful, it is freeing, it is living?

the idea of writing as a captor could only suit him for so long.

he began to type. soon his fingers were flying. they wouldn’t stop, they couldn’t stop.

they could only be captive for so long. his mind could only be captive for so long.

he closed his eyes, listening to the philharmonic chords of freedom- his fingers busily typing everything he ever wanted to say.

sheer freedom.