I sit with a post it,

Willing the words from my sophomoric mind,

And they do not come,

For I have nothing to say. 

And now I do. And I sit once more with a post it, and I know why I write. 

For the bitter days I am lost in my mind, 

For the emptiness in my chest while I lie broken in a shipping crate to nowhere. 

And for the summer sky and my pleasantly sunburned nostrils,

And for the glittering lights of a city in a country far away from home. 

I write to remember, to forget, to be human, to live.

I write to cry, to laugh, to believe, and to feel. 

Human experience is incomplete to me,

And the venomous thoughts in my head would continuously seep through my thickening blood,

Yet I have discovered the

pen.