These days I seem to be writing a lot of poetry,
both splendid and dull words.
It’s these emotions:
the fear,
anger,
joy,
that sweep across the mind and take the places of my characters.
That say;
write metaphors,
not dialogues.

Today I have abandoned my characters to the wild,
no longer even pretending I am trying to move forward – Chapter 5 may do as it pleases.
Today I would rather sink into the sweeter tasting words of poetry,
the burned souls and the sun’s fragrance and the multitude of colors that become
something more.

No longer taking cautioned steps through the unpaved road.
Leap once, over the rock;
fall, hurt, and rise again.
Stinging flesh and blood bringing my fingers alive
with words.

Today, I write not for myself,
but for the memories and emotions that cannot be held within any body.
For those few that seem to wake my mind, slicing it open with soft words
so that all the poetry may spill out, red on the page.
Vibrant, splattered, haphazard poetry.

My fingers are red.
My ink black.
My mouth silent.

Today, I write poetry on poetry,
and not one of the words I want will appear on the page.
Pinned down, they would flutter and die,
crumble and disappear, or rot against the paper.
Today I pin down shadows of words that cannot be contained,
letting them fly loose in the wind,
tear through souls,
beat inside hearts before taking off once more, flighty as always.
While all I am left with is a poem.