The Writer's High

The writers high? It is quite real Though it won’t come every day It’s when the scene you wish to make, Spills out freely on the page. Say you’re writing two young lovers In a passionate embrace… One kisses the other, they paw at Their clothes, fabric rips in the flurry, She cries ‘I love you. Take me!’ He lays her on the bed, clothes fly, Sweat and hot breath fill the room as He grabs her by the hips and— Oh, sorry. Got carried away. Where was I? Right! But the writer’s high It seizes you suddenly, Like a shiver down your spine, Like when two opponents, Trained in the martial arts, Eye each other slowly, searching, Glaring. Then they charge! A jab! A cross! A roundhouse kick! One snags an elbow And Judo flips his foe right into A plate glass window! But he just gets up, smile, wipes Off the blood and— Nuts, sorry again. Lost focus. My bad. But a writer’s high, it’s quite unique A feeling unlike any other. It soars Through you mind…like two space cruisers Duking it out over a desert world, The fate of millions on the line! Bolts and blasts streak this way And that, and then: a fighter… Roars in our of nowhere Bound on a suicide course, To ram his foe, take him down in A rage of glory and free the galaxy Of tyranny— Crap. Okay, I didn’t want to admit it, But I’m much to high to explain this. Come back tomorrow. If you'll Please excuse me, I have Some writing to do.