Because poetry is there when “I love you” cannot possibly be

Enough to describe how I feel. Or when the page is a blank

Canvas, a world waiting to be created. If they say

A picture is worth a thousand words, then take one. But don’t

Underestimate how much these words can mean.

Sit me down with a pen or a keyboard, I’ll write you five thousand,

Every single sentence as important as your picture.

I don’t have a god complex; I have a multiverse inside me. I

Need to let it out or it will seep from my soul and

Overflow out of my mouth in a way so desperate and so

Littered with misshapen meanings and ambiguous antecedents that

Only God would understand what I’d meant, because I’d lose even myself.

Notes that wind up scrawled across the backs of insignificant scraps then

Get shoved into pockets and washed or swept away or lost for ages and should they

Ever be found, I’d thank the paper for being there when I need to

Relieve myself of the words that had attempted to drown me. Good gracious,

Help me, I started writing because it was fun and now I do it because

Anything else won’t stop the buzzing in my head or my jumping knee and just

Vexes me and makes me so keyed up I feel stretched thin and

Eventually just give in to the niggling urge taking over my mind

And go find a pen, because really, the words are just fine on my skin.

Choosing to write was not a mistake, but I’ll be

Harping about the fact that I couldn’t stop if I’d wanted to in my

Obituary because I understand now something I didn’t before:

I have a soul that is bigger than my body. It is powerful and will

Claw its way out and destroy me on the way if I don’t give it a means of

Escape. And so I continue to write.