As I sit down

with my journal

a cream-colored notebook

with tiny strawberries

all over it

I feel

that same peculiar feeling

creeping in

when I pick up

my pen

and my journal.

I open

the worn pages

to a blank space

while that peculiar feeling

rises

from my stomach

to my throat.

Yet

I am silent.

All you can hear

in the house

is the sound

of my pen

scratching the paper

as I write.

It’s warm.

It’s exciting

to see what words

pour out of me.

I never know.

It’s a mystery.

The pressure

boiling inside

releases smoke

as I write.

I quiet

my inner critic

and trust

my creative voice.

I read

the stranger

who lives

inside me.

Each word

heals a part of me

that I can’t see.

I was born a poet,

and a poet

is what

I will be.