When I was young, writing gave pause to hot, angry tears. I turn to my pen in times of great sorrow, confusion, or distress, yet also when I am joyful and full of life and purpose. Poetry pours out at high and low points. In person, I am rarely one that’s considered lost for words, although as I grow older I am trying to learn the habit of tongue biting over wagging. It is one of my chief struggles and I regret having only a size 6 foot to utilize as a stopper.
So why write?
My words are more beautiful and succinct on paper.
In my writing, there is an end goal, a sentence that completes a thought. My writing is both a release and a bridle for my tongue.
On paper, I can create semblance for my flailing thoughts: a beginning, a middle, an end. As I write I edit in silence, crossing out and scribbling over words that had my mouth given them voice could never be unspoken. My pen is my self-pacing breath for my thoughts. If allowed to escape in voice form they would appear as what they are: Wild, unstable jumble with no clear direction.
My written words are my metered-out insides, checked and balanced standing exposed on paper. Can my thoughts pass the test of my eyes and a once again filtering through my quieted mind?
Once penned are they all still necessary to give voice to this waterfall held inside? This is why I write- it is a discipline for my younger, and an outlet for my mind. May my written words be of more use and value than a thousand unchecked spoken words.
Written, re-written, and written again,
Create some sort of structure
From wild thoughts to words with pen;
I write and I write-
No one needs to hear all,
These pages a safety net
To break my thoughts’ fall.
