Possessed by the Pen

The pen was never just a tool in my hand.

It was a fire, a spirit, a restless tide.

It burned through pages,

ink bleeding like veins,

whispering truths I could not yet name.

I was possessed —

not by madness, not by loss,

but by the calling that stalked me

through quiet hours,

through failed jobs,

through the voices that said, “be sensible.”

Still the pen pulsed,

still it pulled me back to the page,

a lover who would not let me go.

And now, I see it clearly:

the pen was not the possession.

I was.

Owned by story,

claimed by myth,

wedded to the work of weaving words

into spells that outlast me.

Possessed by the pen,

I surrender at last,

and in surrender

I am finally free.

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Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.