Some compulsion I cannot name, nagging me.
An alarm I cannot silence reminding me there is something I need to do,
need to say, need to write down . . .
The urge to create when the creative cauldrons are dry.
I cannot get it out. Voices that have no words, screaming that has no sound.
Something I thought of the night before that I have forgotten.
My mind rowing upstream against the current, trying to halfheartedly remember.
I've forgotten how it feels—or have I ever felt it before?
Some days I feel as if I know nothing at all.
But some days, too,
the rains come