Relatable to Writers Everywhere.

                                               

                                                            Writers have Wings.

                                            In silence I sit surrounded by strange faces,
                                            I am alone yet not alone,
                                            Its just me and my little secrets
                                            Locked inside the magic lamp that is skin
                                            And bone,
                                            Locked I am, but bound I am not,
                                            For I have the freedom: I have the wings,
                                            Not as those of birds, bats, or bugs,
                                            But invisible wings of mind.

                                            I look to the window and the beckoning sunlight
                                            Beyond,
                                            My wings are spreading now,
                                            Distractions of all kinds fade to a dull hum that
                                            Is now nothing I care about,
                                            And I simply go,
                                            Not through air or space,
                                            But through color, image, and sound.
                                            Soaring and gliding I, flying now, wisp
                                            These colors off of my wings and let them swirl
                                            Into patterns,
                                           
                                            I control them,
                                            But all at once they control me,
                                            I am not their master,
                                            And they are not mine.

                                           We as one, flap through the realms
                                           We have built.
                                           Rocky peaks,
                                           Water roaring, tumbling,
                                           Or a bird singing contentedly
                                           It all erupts into life,
                                           I ride on the sounds and sensations of
                                           The new world before me.
                                           No gravity.

                                           But then I wake to the ordinary,
                                           I've traveled so far!
                                           Yet, I never left my desk.

                                                                                  E.J. Norris.