I began writing as soon as my young hand could grip a pen.
Poems regarding ice cream and messy rooms outpoured
from a faucet previously untapped.
I fell in love with words, with language,
spending my days reading and jotting down words that struck me as beautiful.
I became addicted to translating emotions to paper,
writing poem after poem after poem.
Ice cream morphed into boys and my adolescent taste for them,
describing which flavor suited my liking at the time.
Writing lines about their sickly sweet smiles,
and the sticky feeling they left behind when they were through holding my hand.
Messy rooms translated to poems of cancer and broken homes and their side effects,
the anxiety that creates a jumble of nerves out of the strongest of storms.
I write because my hand is unyielding,
constantly reaching for the next fathomless metaphor,
for the next opportunity to place my soul in a stanza.
Ernest Hemingway once said, "there is nothing to writing.
All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
This would explain the ache that comes with forming my oeuvre,
the wound that poetry can either soothe or pour salt into.
All that I know,
all that I have ever known,
is that my pen will not cease.
Nor, I suppose, will the bleeding.