Writers Have Wings

This one can relate to writers everywhere.

   In silence I sit surrounded by strange faces,
       I am alone yet not alone,
       Its just me and my little secrets
       Locked inside the magic lamp that is skin 
       And bone,
       Locked I am, but bound I am not,
       For I have the freedom: I have the wings,
       Not as those of birds, bats, or bugs,
       But invisible wings of mind.

       I look to the window and the beckoning sunlight
       Beyond,
       My wings are spreading now,
       Distractions of all kinds fade to a dull hum that
       Is now nothing I care about,
       And I simply go,
       Not through air or space,
       But through color, image, and sound.
       Soaring and gliding I, flying now, wisp
       These colors off of my wings and let them swirl
       Into patterns,
       
       I control them,
       But all at once they control me,
       I am not their master,
       And they are not mine.

      We as one, flap through the realms
      We have built.
      Rocky peaks,
      Water roaring, tumbling,
      Or a bird singing contentedly
      It all erupts into life,
      I ride on the sounds and sensations of
      The new world before me.
      No gravity.

      But then I wake to the ordinary,
      I've traveled so far!
      Yet, I never left my desk.

Author's Note

As always, keeping responses constructive is all I ask.