Tune of the Earworm
Ink stains on my fingers,
Disheveled hair, Scrunched eyes,
And then I look at you and calm sweeps over.
Ah! giving birth is never easy;
even when bringing a thought to life.
All the similar pains of biological birth,
In a mere mind space.
Sometimes only the twiddling thumbs create,
With a blank black screen slowly filling up with words.
Ah, the growling creation inside,
that prods and pokes insistently;
till its released into written words,
and moving imagery in thousands!
It tugs at me,
a demanding lover,
demanding that I step up.
And if I don't, a curious delirium follows.
Turning now into a smudged looking glass.
It's akin to a earworm,
but instead of hypnotically endearing melody,
it is the bitingly enchanting imagery,
of ideas and distorted words,
that can only resolve through these hands.
I'm, but a slave,
to my ever wandering mind;
Today, it feels like its conceived again;
And nudges me to heed
While I dance deliriously to the tune of the earworm.