write

I’m a writer.

I write stuff down

In notebooks, on paper napkins, on skin.

I find the paths unwalked and wade on through

Never stopping for a moment to consider turning around.

I weave words together, and temper them like cold iron

So when they reach your hands, they will know just how to pierce, or heal.

I create the landscapes you see in your own dreams

Memorizing where I wander when I stare off into space.

I paint with my hands in colors I discovered as a child

Borrowing from nature or the tall structures man has devised for himself.

I hold up colored glass to my eyes, to see the world in a different light,

Watching the shadows of a sunset in a strange hue of green

And it is what keeps my heart alive when I discover I am confined.

You must understand –

I’m a writer.

I write stuff down.

I cannot be tamed, or cured.

You must let me run my course;

I am Chaos.

I am not dangerous in small doses, I promise.

But someone may have been waiting their whole life for what I have to say,

For what I see as truth and beauty, bound together and inseparable,

May save their life

Or change their mind.

Do not hold me back.

I am a writer.

I write stuff down.