Driven (Poetry)

They are like ghosts —
these odd ideas that creep and stumble in
they sit and wait — whisper sly
coax me to begin
a narrative — a tale that weaves
twists anxious and provokes
a scrawl —
untidy — words run out
the strangeness in them soaks
through flesh — through thought — through paper
they call —
cajole — entreat
incite creative nature
to listen — fashion neat
histories of voices —
each worry, wail and scream
scratched into a sentence
interpreting the dream.

Restlessly repeating
the hiss of spirit song
aurally invading
the verse strings on and on
winds deep through the subconscious
its beat the blood’s slow thrum
the mind past understanding
how haunting voices come.