"Ars Poetica?"

Ars Poetica?
When I was little, I would make up songs -
Tiny silly songs about a giraffe or
The way the branches move in the breeze
And as I’d start to sing, I’d choke up and tear.

The words would absorb all the moisture in my throat and
Stick to the sides, making it hard to breathe.

Deprived of oxygen, the words died out for a time.


I’m not sure how I started writing
But I know that when I write, it is like dancing

You become weightless, faceless, as the experience fills you
You communicate unconsciously, swaying, spinning, laughing
What “feels” right becomes all-important as everything else is laid aside.

Writing is a release, it is an expression
Writing is a way to scream into a pillow or scream at society
Or scream at yourself; or perhaps scream for ice cream.
Writing is memory too

Writing is power
Quiet power, subtle power, deep power
What powerful magic these symbols have to evoke
To evoke
To remind, to enrage, to crush, to woo, to paralyze with sentiment
Dangerous power.

Writing is beautiful
It is vulnerable