My Ghost, The Writer Poem by Dan Hanosh

I move my pen across
the parchment, sometimes with
such precise strokes,
proceeding without
my guiding I wonder
if it’s really me,

my conscious mind appears
blank yet the other, does
not speak until I
sleep or so I thought,
I pick up a pen I
feel someone else is

in control, I write for
my mind is empty
though my pen dances
across the page, I
write outrageous words
of imagery thoughts

of emotion symbols
of happiness hidden
bits of my sorrow,
never used by me
before, maybe My Ghost,
the Writer, he knows.