Ode To Writers

To us who write
for the sanity and sanctity of our souls.
Because
 of the stroke we suffer
from hemorrhages of repressed 
thoughts.
To us, whose words identify us better
than fingerprints ever could,
and  whose palms are callused and blistered
from weeding pain out of the broken earth
upon which we walk.

To us, who take the weather too personally,
and whose favorite moments are spent in the
hushed corners of our own minds.
To us, whose bloodstreams flow
onomatopoeia.
The ones whose 
hearts pound for prose,
search for similies, 
and ache for alliteration.

To us whose shoulders seem brittle
but carry the weight the world in secret.
To us who see the universe as
the inside of an antique kaleidoscope.
We are the ones who dream wide awake
because sleep doesn’t come easy.

To us for whom rain is holy water
and snow is an excuse for repentance.
The ones who believe,
just to have hope in something.

For us, who look in
instead of up
for divine inspiration.

To the ones who write because

we know that
every letter of
ink,
every comma of gasp,
every stanza of battle cry
floats into infinite galaxies
of whispered Hallelujahs.

I am a writer
for I know--as writers do--
that it's the only way to 
surpass mere being
and begin to truly

Become.