The Stranger Inside

It happens mostly in the morning, when all is quiet and the world is still sleeping.  I get up, put the coffee on, get dressed, and sit down to read a bit.  Usually it's a poem...by nobody in particular.  After a bit, I begin my day, and the words come to me like a rushing spring.  It may be only two or three words at first, but they nag at me and I know they will not be satisfied until they flow onto paper...so I take pen in hand and write them down.  They begin to flow from me in a hurried gush, and my pen has a difficult time keeping up.  Where is this going?  What does it mean?  Why do these words need to be released?  These are the questions I ask.  The answers are never the same, nor are the words...or the particular pen that writes them.  The only constant is this hand from which they flow.  Heavenly words, erotic words, words that inspire, words that question, give praise, or incite.  They flow from this hand possessed, and they often come from someone that I don't know...or even want to know.  Who is this stranger inside me?