The Rush

A story is brewing,
Demanding to be formed.
It tears away inside of me,
With thoughts and quips I am swarmed.
Not ever soon enough,
The words find their vent.
At first they are rough,
As if alive by accident.
Then the stream is fluid,
And the ink runs free.
Pen, struck with movement,
Fills lines three by three.
Words gush out like a cyclone;
It takes so much energy.
Before I can call it my own,
My story has finished me.