When and Why I Write
As I sit down once again, in front of the old computer with the whirring fan
My fingers begin to hit the black keys, each one a small click
That make an musical orchestra of words
Most words that I type to not register until I have finished
And I allow myself to let my eyes travel up and down the screen and take them in
In their full and complete beauty
So when I finish, part of me feels elated
On a writing induced high
As if I have written a Shakespeare novel that will touch the hearts of millions
And when I finish, another part of me feels inadequate
As if no matter how much I write, the voice inside me will never be still
The poems that I produce are just a way of temporarily silencing it
But I am left simply with a string of words, stanzas of unfinished thought
I wish she would see them- that they would see them
And know how much struggle and pain it took me to set my soul free
I submit them and have other people critique them so my poems can be perfected
And so when she reads them she will see herself in not only my idea of perfection
But somebody else’s
And I submit them so that they will see my name written in script forever
As someone who made a difference, who was good enough
Who’s writing touched not only her and not only them but somebody who had no obligation to me
I suppose writing is a sense of closure that rehashes the memories
Each and every time I work to make the pain beautiful, it comes out halfway decent
So I hope that my struggle to articulate the madness is somebody else’s cause for saying, “I can relate to that poem”.