Transfer

I touched my fingers to the page
My thoughts appeared in fits of rage
I closed my eyes, whispered a prayer
Just like magic…the words were there
Bold and bright, in flurried flight
They appeared with rapid might
I knew not how
I knew not where
I knew I only did not care
The toil of the writer’s mind
Is never painless, never kind
Grateful that my words were clear
Grateful I did not have to steer
I touched my fingers to the page;
my poem was upon the stage.