The Thirst

by Penny Wilson Writes, posted in Prose, Writing

         

I’m the junkie, twitching for his next fix.  I’m the drunkard, looking for his next drink.  I’m the infant, crying for his mother’s breast.

I’m the lover, yearning for the touch of your skin.

The need in me to spew forth my thoughts is undeniable.  My fingers are drawn to the keyboard, searching for that release.

I long to watch the letters flow across the screen as I chase the cursor.

The cursor is mocking me today.

My thoughts will not emerge upon the page.

Today the thirst will remain.

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