When I wake up and I have time to write,
And I am not four childrened off my feet,
It's like a gifted day where thoughts take flight
And my life once again can feel complete.
What is it that creation seems to stir?
Why are these writing moments so sublime?
How does this Wonderful ever occur?
Why does it feel like I am stopping time?
Maybe it's true, the Now I stretch with words
Stops time. It seems so, and it also seems
As though my thoughts are like magical birds
That, as they land upon this page of dreams,
Connect me to the past that once was me
And everything that I will ever be.

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