My Fingers Shock Me

My fingers shock me.
I don’t even know what I’m doing, yet I know that’s what I have to do.
The emergence of the words coming from a source beyond me.
It’s hard to be an artist, knowing yourself to be a fraud.
My words, like squeezing blood from a turnip. It doesn’t work. Yet I beat myself, flogging my pen as though I know that if I just try hard enough, I’ll squeeze a little out.
If there is any greatness to what I’m writing, it’s not of my volition. It’s not of me, its through me.
The vehicle for a voice that is ready to be heard.
It’s hard to produce something great, all the while maintaining a healthy detachment. The words speak to me, they shock me, they fill me. I want to own them.
Sometimes, the turns I’m forced to take frighten me. I don’t know where they’re headed. My insides fighting, saying “don’t do that.” But I know this is a time to listen, a time to allow what wants to be said, said.
Its funny, I know when it’s time to write.
What’s curious is, I’m not as good at knowing when it’s not time to write.
The thrill of being the vehicle for ideas and words that shock me to the core excites me so much that the allure of the pen is too great to ignore.
It’s easy to get confused into believing that I’m in control.
The lullaby of greatness, an alluring opiate.