The Truth of Why I Write
I write where I see empty lines;
spaces perfect for subverting the cacophony
of dark thoughts and black places
that lives inside my head.
I write nonsense and useless facts
in an attempt to pick the debris
from the landscape of my mind.
These thoughts, feelings, and observations
are not passions, they are chains.
My head is not a tranquil place; it is filled
with with the shrieks and pounding of hurricane waters
and natural disasters that pick and pull and tear apart
the very fabric of my attention span.
I am not alone in my head.
There are voices there that will not quiet.
I write to give them shape and form,
something that I can physically destroy.
I write not to give them food or quarter.
Rather, I write to give them life so that I can take it back,
like the hand of a faceless God snatching breath away in the night.
The fear of getting trapped inside the tide
and caught in the undertow of my cloying thoughts
sends shivers through my body like electric shocks;
paralyzing my fingers and letting the beast run free.
I write so I become empty like a pitcher devoid of water.
But in there lies the curse,
because once I am empty I can once again be filled.