Why do I write, you ask?

May I ask, why you breathe?

Why you sleep?

Writing is to me as wind is to air,

as wing is to dream.

as rain is to earth.

Yet the Earth needs more than rain, a body needs more than air.

Earth and the human body are funny like that.

They are so needy.

I am so needy.

I feel as though I am unique- one in a million, but in a cursed way.

Not in a fingerprint way, or hazel eyes way.

But in a way that I must shield, and conceal from those who “know” me most.

What caused my brain to house such hots and colds?
Perhaps a faulty chromosome? A haunting mantra?

I guess I’ll never know. There is no sake arguing.

Ripped in half two separate ways, my body erupts with polar emotions.

Fire and ice shoot upward with nowhere to land, no ears to listen to soothe their swirling rage.

Why do I write?

Only writing and poetry allows these opposites to settle- to cool through written word, shape-shifted to hide their true meaning.

Because all I am is a lie.

Merely a photograph lacking true body and soul- a smiling face that covers my aching skull, dusted with lack of substance and purpose.

But poetry mends the cracks- allows me a relief for thoughts that none are trusted with.

It caulks my worn edges, soothes my sandpaper nerves with frayed tips, spouting off worn energy.

But Ink and paper can only mend so much.

Like most things, it is merely an outlet, for someone who requires a cure.

A cure that does not exist.  

Like the Earth, my body requires more than a single action.

More than a single element.

An element that I have yet to find.

And probably never will.