I write for the words,
for the thrill of letters pouring onto the page,
the power of creation,
endless combinations of twenty-six characters, and
each new poem breathes.
Emotions in motion,
as eyes flick across the page.
I write for the stories in my head, and
for the thoughts that have never been said.
I write for the pounding in my chest,
for the thrum of blood in my brain that allows the continuation
I write for the one who thinks she is alone.
She is not.
I write for the tears that have been shed,
and I write for those that are sure
She is not alone.
We are not alone.
I write for the beauty.
The glistening hilltops under oceans of skies,
the stars in the water under ships that fly,
the shimmering snow,
the cliff sides,
can all be sounded a hundred thousand
I write for the tingling beneath my skin,
that tells me its time to begin
Its time hear the paper and pen,
of a keyboard again,
I write for my air,
I write for my breath,
I write for my life,
'til it gives way to death.
Writing is feeling,
writing is real,
I write for the healing when my soul needs to heal.
The words on the page are all of myself.
They are not to be heard;
they are to be felt.