What Writing Is
The feeling of a pen,
Gliding across a clean sheet of paper,
Underneath my pale, rough hand.
Ink forming letters. Words.
Beautiful, loopy handwriting.
Neat, perfect print.
Fast, angry chicken scratch.
Releasing bottled up emotions,
Words never spoken,
Never heard,
Not even by the kindest of ears.
Realize that I don't like confrontation.
This is my way of sorting things out,
Straightening out my thoughts.
Categorizing them into a filing cabinet,
To be pulled out at a moment's notice.
This is how I release my anger,
Despair,
Frustration.
Let my emotion flood pages and papers that will never be read,
Understood,
Or deciphered.
I will cut down every tree in the rainforest writing my story,
A story that will never be told,
Except to a select few...
And they will only do what they want with it.
They will listen and learn from it.
They will change my words and meanings,
Replace them with their own.
They will forget about it,
And therefore they will forget about me.
This is how I choose to let my imagination run wild.
This is how I get to live out all my dreams.
When I write, everything is in my control,
And not some invisible god or goddess...
A great force or a mysterious being.
I can make anything happen...
Anything is possible.
I can become any character,
See any sight.
I can escape reality,
Or I can embrace it completely,
Use this to keep track of my thoughts.
And I can take this,
A simple pen,
A sheet of paper,
And create something new and beautiful.
Something no one has ever seen before.
I can pull something wonderful out of nothing.
Everything I am,
Everything I wish I was,
All of my imagination lies here on these pages,
Pages I can't keep myself from filling up with nonsense...
Do what you want with it.
Gliding across a clean sheet of paper,
Underneath my pale, rough hand.
Ink forming letters. Words.
Beautiful, loopy handwriting.
Neat, perfect print.
Fast, angry chicken scratch.
Releasing bottled up emotions,
Words never spoken,
Never heard,
Not even by the kindest of ears.
Realize that I don't like confrontation.
This is my way of sorting things out,
Straightening out my thoughts.
Categorizing them into a filing cabinet,
To be pulled out at a moment's notice.
This is how I release my anger,
Despair,
Frustration.
Let my emotion flood pages and papers that will never be read,
Understood,
Or deciphered.
I will cut down every tree in the rainforest writing my story,
A story that will never be told,
Except to a select few...
And they will only do what they want with it.
They will listen and learn from it.
They will change my words and meanings,
Replace them with their own.
They will forget about it,
And therefore they will forget about me.
This is how I choose to let my imagination run wild.
This is how I get to live out all my dreams.
When I write, everything is in my control,
And not some invisible god or goddess...
A great force or a mysterious being.
I can make anything happen...
Anything is possible.
I can become any character,
See any sight.
I can escape reality,
Or I can embrace it completely,
Use this to keep track of my thoughts.
And I can take this,
A simple pen,
A sheet of paper,
And create something new and beautiful.
Something no one has ever seen before.
I can pull something wonderful out of nothing.
Everything I am,
Everything I wish I was,
All of my imagination lies here on these pages,
Pages I can't keep myself from filling up with nonsense...
Do what you want with it.