“Just write about it.”

Those words stood still in the air. After hours of screaming then cleaning the mess,

After breaks and pauses of silence, hatred confessed,

After pounding out tears and pouring out hearts,

There was no conclusion reached,

My mind’s lone, last thought creeped

“Just write about it.”

 

When I occasionally walk the lonely streets at night,

The omnipresent question pushes on my mind,

 

“Why oh why am I cursed to be a writer?”

Why does everything affect me so deeply and so severely?

Most of all, why do I feel like every ounce of happiness that flows into my body needs to be immediately allocated into words to remember?

 

I am that lonely soul shouting and howling in the moonlit streets hours past my bedtime,

I am the lover, the daughter, the archetype of innocence, the patron of archenemy and all that’s inbetween.

And I just write about it.

 

When I feel myself experiencing pain, or drain of emotion,

Loneliness, desperation, heartbreak, isolation

Aching plain and simple,

I write about it.

 

And in those darkest moments, those hours of the mind

I heard my mother’s words echoing, so soft and overpoweringly in my head

“Just write about it.”

Write about it even if you have nothing to say, just throw down the first words that come to mind and make sure to slap on a date.

“You’re going to thank me one day.”

 

Eternal Sunshine of an Innocent Mind,

Love flowing through my fingertips and my spine,

Lovers, daughters, innocent writers,

Just chase the words in your brain down into a phrase,

And learn to love the insane

Writer

in yourself,

“Just write about it.”

Let your subconscious do the rest,

And let the emotions in your brain go to rest.