some people.
they see words as flushed with objectivity.
obvious as the reason cheeks go red in wind.
left to right they link letters together to form tongue-lolling diphthongs,
controlling the air in their mouths with a learned kind of pragmatism.
these people read and they may be possessed by it,
the rhythms and structures and perfective formulae that spark
your frontal lobe spinning into a type of ungrounded pre-emption.
visions for things you will never see, but that you envision nonetheless
. maybe they will imitate the patterns of their favorite novels, utilize their cognition to create their
own stories, forcing their whirring heads into funnels that
slip
slam out summarizations of thought trains that
have been sucked into sentences.

they write because they have learned to,
i write
because a blank piece of paper is the most hopeful thing in the world.
the relief of possibility is an endless
addictive enigma
that is embodied by what is currently dimensionless.
a page. a meticulously
repeated dash of
perwinkle marring
unseen intervals into law.
it is not my goal,
nor what i strive to be,
but what i am and where
i have come from.
writing.
more than any one
countless
particular thing i possess,
manifested or still en utero,
writing is that which i feel is a gift.
the gift that sits there inside the untouchable what-is-it
of what-we-all-are.
it is
indeed that intangible
ingrained, ineffable ingredient
that makes me
me.