A Possession

It arrives in the middle of the night 

You are struck, fully taken over 

Forcing your eyes open  

Your body to come alive 

Time to paint 

Time to write and draw and make 

It is time 

Time to create 

The artist hour 

Arrives when least expected 

Takes control  

Of the mind and body and soul 

The creative spirit, 

A possessive ghost 

It drives you  

To stay awake 

Consciousness a half-flipped light switch 

Seconds from going out 

Eyes burning 

Hit by the desert wind of prolonged use 

It puppeteers you 

To keep moving 

Hands are stiff, gnarled tree roots 

Back and neck are rusted door hinges 

It hurtles you 

Off of a cliff 

You cannot stop 

You cannot be done yet 

Not until your creation is perfect 

Or as close as possible 

When you come to 

Aching like, you are the one 

That has been pushing the earth around the sun 

That has been holding up the sky 

Each bone, muscle, nerve 

As worn and weary  

As the centimeter-sized pastel stubs on your desk 

You are covered in: 

Constellations of paint splatters, 

Neon Orion’s belt, rainbow Ursa Major 

Smudges of pencil lead, 

Temporary graphite tattoos 

Evidence of your craft 

When the spirit has left your body 

You beg for it to come back 

Because you love it 

You love every single 

Frustrating, tiring, awe-inspiring  

Moment