Strange (an old poem about writing)

It is a strange feeling, the sensation you have
when there are words flowing out of you like you
are a fountain of them. A limitless fountain of
marvelous creations and sentences dancing around

There is no limit to my self when I write
I can be whomever I chose to be, a dancer
a poet, a scholar, a beggar, is there any
one I cannot be when I choose to be them?

It is a strange feeling, it oozes out of me
sprinkles onto the pavement, and lashes out
at me with a seemingly act of vengeance, I
am complete in a way, and yet there is only

One fountain, one writer, one mind, one soul
that dances infinitely amongst an ocean of a b c
do you understand what that means? do you know
how that feeling can overtake you in a moment?

Thus is an artisan soul, the soul of one who
can only live words, who can only breathe one
word at a time, one paragraph after another,
it is a soul that lives through their words

I bow to you in a manner of speaking, and
a smile in joy takes shape, my soul rejoices,
my anger subsides for a while and I am peace
I am limitless, alone only in my minds eye

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