‘What are you writing?’

The question sends my world spinning backwards

and leaves me scrambling for what I already know

will be an insufficient answer

because I know the question that will follow:

‘Can I read it?’

This is what always follows, the dreaded question

 that turns my masterpiece into a “roses are red” poem

because I know I can’t make them understand.

Sure they can understand the word choice and follow the structure,

they can dissect the figurative language and criticize the grammar,

but how can they possibly understand the “why”?

How can they understand that I write with the blood of my soul,

that each word is etched into my skin with a knife of passion and precision?

Can they recognize that the pen on the page

follows the steady rhythm of the needle scratching the record

as it plays on repeat the song that is stuck in my heart,

 the song that I haven’t quite learned the words to?

Can they see how the sparkle of passion in my eyes hits the page

like the sun breaking through the clouds

as my fingertips linger on an 8x11 treasure that most view as a blank piece of paper?

Will they recognize the faded water marks that were left

when every feeling I had rolled down my cheeks and left me paralyzed?

Do they hear my heart beat in the rhythm of the lines;

can they read the real story disguised between them;

and can they still hear the emotion echoing through their souls

long after they have finished reading?

And how will they approach it?

Will they waterski across the surface, riding the influx and

soaring when they hit the climax;

or will they take the plunge into the depths and explore,

staying down until their lungs are about to burst

just to let it drench them and seep into every part of who they are?

‘Can I read it?’

My breathing is unsteady as I turn this question over and over in my mind,

and I realize that this paper they keep glancing toward

is exactly who I am.

It is not their job to understand, but mine to help them do so.

I want to see the emotion in their eyes,

I want to see their entire sky light up

as the sun breaks over the tops of the mountains and clarity takes hold.

It is this desire to make them understand that keeps me going

because I know that with every curious ‘Can I read it?’ I have the

opportunity to explain the vast terrain that I paint across my canvas in letters and words.

It is not enough for me to scream my words if they only come out as whispers.

So I struggle and I agonize and I glow with the possibility

because I know that one day I will indeed make them understand.

This is who I am.

This is why I write.