Because poetry is there when “I love you” cannot possibly be
Enough to describe how I feel. Or when the page is a blank
Canvas, a world waiting to be created. If they say
A picture is worth a thousand words, then take one. But don’t
Underestimate how much these words can mean.
Sit me down with a pen or a keyboard, I’ll write you five thousand,
Every single sentence as important as your picture.
I don’t have a god complex; I have a multiverse inside me. I
Need to let it out or it will seep from my soul and
Overflow out of my mouth in a way so desperate and so
Littered with misshapen meanings and ambiguous antecedents that
Only God would understand what I’d meant, because I’d lose even myself.
Notes that wind up scrawled across the backs of insignificant scraps then
Get shoved into pockets and washed or swept away or lost for ages and should they
Ever be found, I’d thank the paper for being there when I need to
Relieve myself of the words that had attempted to drown me. Good gracious,
Help me, I started writing because it was fun and now I do it because
Anything else won’t stop the buzzing in my head or my jumping knee and just
Vexes me and makes me so keyed up I feel stretched thin and
Eventually just give in to the niggling urge taking over my mind
And go find a pen, because really, the words are just fine on my skin.
Choosing to write was not a mistake, but I’ll be
Harping about the fact that I couldn’t stop if I’d wanted to in my
Obituary because I understand now something I didn’t before:
I have a soul that is bigger than my body. It is powerful and will
Claw its way out and destroy me on the way if I don’t give it a means of
Escape. And so I continue to write.