The Paradoxical Landfill

My hands can belt out all the words I wouldn't even dare whisper stanza upon stanza filled with feelings, allowing emotions to gasp for breath after being under so long beneath the tongue, beneath the skin beneath that space that feels so hollow and ragged when you're sad What I'm left with is such a catharsis, such pure air in my chest that only birds and mighty trees can attest to write is to breathe, to fill notebooks and computer space with extensions of what I can only call myself. Hands and fingers, they fill and fill and fill and at the same time create something both ugly and beautiful this is why I write