Sylvia Plath said, 'We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.' I write for the opposite reason. Every moment I spend in my mind, summoning words is a moment spent stretching. Sometimes it's a physical stretch. Sometimes it's a mental stretch. When I write, it's me untying the knot. It's me releasing the tension.
Some of what I write are just the summarized transcripts of conversations between my heart and my mind.
Sometimes I write because I want to. Other times I write because I must. Brent Weeks said, 'for a man who denies what is essential to his being is a man who drills holes in the cup of his own happiness.' More often than not, writing makes me happy. But more often than that, it makes me feel complete.
Apparent to none. Transparent to some.
Thin like the skin of those who pose as friends to begin
but end like chameleons
when they sway in the wind
...
In the darkness damp
and wet
form tears that fell to quell what's left.
No more to dwell
...
Pounding away my problems
is how I often solve them.
Grinding them to dust
and blowing them in the wind
...
She said hurt me and it hurt me
but I did it because I loved her,
at least that’s what I told myself, but I didn’t believe that and neither did she.
We just met three hours ago -
...
I'm not sure where to begin
but I'm pretty sure where this all will end -
lost then found, then lost again
more lost then the start when hearts played no part
...