I write because I never could throw a punch.
I never could run fast enough jump high enough or beat you in sports at recess,
But I could run circles around your head with unparalleled linguistic prowess.
I spoke daggers,
And when my Shakespeare-inspired insults twisted themselves into ninja throwing stars mid-sentence and pinned you to the wall, they felt like
I write for clarity.
I can stop time, pull ideas out of my head and move the spinning objects around on the page until they fit.
I write because fists are too big and clumsy to change minds, but words can whisper themselves in between the folds of your brain,
Because bruises fade but language sticks itself like chewing gum on your brain matter, and it’s hard to tell the two
I write because I prefer paper cuts to knife wounds.
Because when the fight turns in on itself, I bleed in ink spills.
The lightning strike scars on my skin are leftovers from an electrifying idea and not a psychiatric problem without a
I write because I never could throw a punch,
But I had strength enough to pick up a pen.