The Moment

And they didn't hear you, anyway.

Your choicest words shouted,

pleaded,

but they never picked up the thread,

never looked back.

So the words sit inside you,

needing to spill, spill

perhaps to ears more open,

more caring,

perhaps less.

Perhaps, in the end,

the tsunami force of waiting words

takes over,

regardless of who's listening

and who's not.

Perhaps, when you are so broken

that the vessel of self cracks open,

words flying pell-mell onto the page

at breakneck speed,

dictated with urgency

from the depths,

perhaps then -- and perhaps only then --

you have become a 

writer.