The Compulsion
After midnight.
A quiet nagging in the dead of the night.
Not desire, not inspiration — much like compulsion.
The heart quickened.
So I crept out of bed and went to my desk,
trading the warmth of sleep for that small private euphoria.
A line arrived, and I committed it to the page,
the keys striking softly, their small impacts swallowed by silence.
A poem.
-Pablo