When and Why I Write

As I sit down once again, in front of the old computer with the whirring fan

My fingers begin to hit the black keys, each one a small click

That make an musical orchestra of words

 

Most words that I type to not register until I have finished

And I allow myself to let my eyes travel up and down the screen and take them in

In their full and complete beauty

 

So when I finish, part of me feels elated

On a writing induced high

As if I have written a Shakespeare novel that will touch the hearts of millions

 

And when I finish, another part of me feels inadequate

As if no matter how much I write, the voice inside me will never be still

The poems that I produce are just a way of temporarily silencing it

 

But I am left simply with a string of words, stanzas of unfinished thought

I wish she would see them- that they would see them

And know how much struggle and pain it took me to set my soul free

 

I submit them and have other people critique them so my poems can be perfected

And so when she reads them she will see herself in not only my idea of perfection

But somebody else’s

 

And I submit them so that they will see my name written in script forever

As someone who made a difference, who was good enough

Who’s writing touched not only her and not only them but somebody who had no obligation to me

 

I suppose writing is a sense of closure that rehashes the memories

Each and every time I work to make the pain beautiful, it comes out halfway decent

So I hope that my struggle to articulate the madness is somebody else’s cause for saying, “I can relate to that poem”. 

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