I sit in my long pajama shirt.

Warm and comfortable.

Suddenly a melody of words sing to me.

I grab a pen and paper or my laptop.

And as if I am performing automatic writing.

I just let it flow.

My hands flying over the keys like a flock of geese in the sky.

To heaven they soar upon the wind.

A slave not to sanity, but to the keys behind my fingertips.

I don’t plan the poems or force them.

They come to me.

As if asking me to tell a secret that was long lost or never heard.

Writing to me as natural as breathing.

As I let the words within escape their prison.

2012 Unpublished work. © by Rebbecca Abernathy