I write for the words,

for the thrill of letters pouring onto the page,

the power of creation,

of formation.

New life,

rhythm,

endless combinations of twenty-six characters, and

each new poem breathes.

Emotions in motion,

as eyes flick across the page.

I write for the stories in my head, and

for the thoughts that have never been said.

I write for the pounding in my chest,

the beat,

beat,

beat,

for the thrum of blood in my brain that allows the continuation

of me.

I write for the one who thinks she is alone.

She is not.

I write for the tears that have been shed,

and I write for those that are sure

to flow.

She is not alone.

We are not alone.

I write for the beauty.

The glistening hilltops under oceans of skies,

the stars in the water under ships that fly,

the shimmering snow,

the cliff sides,

the caves,

the people,

the sunburns,

the deserts,

the waves,

can all be sounded a hundred thousand

different ways.

I write for the tingling beneath my skin,

that tells me its time to begin

again.

Its time hear the paper and pen,

the tap,

tap,

of a keyboard again,

and again.

I write for my air,

I write for my breath,

I write for my life,

'til it gives way to death.

Writing is feeling,

writing is real,

I write for the healing when my soul needs to heal.

The words on the page are all of myself.

They are not to be heard;

they are to be felt.