You battled for hours,
Late into the forgotten night,
Chasing your lost voice.
Laptop keys and imagination,
Locked in the usual tireless fight.
Bleary eyed, you typed send,
Black coffee, stale breath.
Chipped nails. Chopped dreams.
And then the inevitable mail.
An inch closer to writing death?
You wrote in a fury, uncaring,
Not stopping to even think,
Of the metaphors or the voice.
A rush of words, spit out,
Sent before you could blink.
400 likes, 20 shares,
Triple the usual view.
Just when the last candle
Blew out, the letter
Came with the morning dew.
What’s your real voice?
Does the writer have a choice?
