The Garden of Words


I've been sitting here for three hours

My brain, wracked

My nails, bitten

Why do I write?

Why do I write?

I write because I can

and because I don't have to

Writing for me symbolizes an element of control that is otherwise missing from my life

and having even that tiny smidge of control makes the unbearable bearable

When I put pen to paper, or fingers to keys

control is mine and mine alone

No one can influence the thoughts that pollenate my fingertips

And when my flowers grow, no one can tell me that they're ugly

I can uproot the vibrant displays and plant them elsewhere, but what I create is still a garden

and I can either tend it

or let it choke on weeds

I owe nothing to anyone in this domain of my control

And if someday I let my flowers adorn the dinner table

then consider yourself lucky

because sightings of those flowers are few

and far




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