Habitually Speechless, attacked by my violent mind,

my mouth is a blocked exit.

Slammed against the glass of revolving doors, turning with no direction,

my thoughts resemble loose change,

tossed in pockets, having the potential to amount to something,

so long as they collect in one place.

Hopeless pieces of my never-broken spirit combine to twist out cold ideas,

stealthily escaping,

onto a white tundra entirely my own.

My eyes mimic with intensity, shrill screams from a little girl.

Sometimes in joy, sometimes in panic, but always naive,

to be soothed only by pen strokes to endless lonely pages.

There is a girl who would melt into her chair in English 2a,

silently sobbing for her words.

Expressionless features can't mask desperation and desires,

and so I knew.

I knew that I wrote for the girl in English 2a.

for her and her desires.

But also,

for a man I once knew.

who described words as if they were colorless paint.

A mural of imagination that clothed your naked mind in secrets no one else could understand.

I've sent letters to Holden Caulfield about the ducks that left the park when the pond froze.

I held the icy gun for Seymour Glass.

Esme sings to me at private concerts.

Because J.D Salinger changed my life.

Silently tripping through life terrifies my demons and my saints.

wrapping fingers around my neck, suffocating my undiscovered purpose.

Clutching my future in fears, remedied with letters followed by letters.

Because oxygen needs to transform in my lungs, and red paint needs to pound through endless veins, I need words on pages.

Because I need to fuel my body, I need to fuel my soul.

Why do I Write?

Well, Why do I breathe?