Gemotions

“Write a poem,” Clara whispered, her voice barely audible. Her mother’s bucket list. The words seemed to vibrate in the air. Clara paced her small apartment, a nervous energy coursing through her. She felt like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap.

She sat at her desk, staring at a blank page. The urge to *create* was overwhelming. She had never written poetry before, but she began to scribble, words spilling onto the page in a torrent, a release of something she couldn't name. Her fingers ached. Her head spun. But she couldn't stop.