when asked how i write
i stare blankly.
its not a matter of how
not something i can teach
these are words that come to me
not words that i find.
they say that things happen when you least expect them
and it's true
so i carry something to write with
so i can follow through,
when the keys on the screen control me,
so i can keep the promise to my heart
to let it all out.
because when i write
i paint.
blood red, to oranges, lemons, to limes, oceans, to bruises leaving their mark.
it’s a piece of art,
smudged here and there,
painted with a brush whose hairs are falling out, scattered because my mind’s a mess
no organized desk.
but every smudge is an imperfection that i'd rather not fix.
see i really don't write
instead i paint my soul
i'm the oceans tide that never stop flowing
because my words just go and go and go.
when i get hurt
i ask for words
because every moment is a poem
written in invisible ink and you gotta let your light shine before you blink
before theres no more ink.

maybe on another day i wouldn't stare blankly and instead when asked how i write i would say
i start with a blank page
so white,
it's never been touched
fresh fallen snow
waiting for my blood to run.
and sometimes the untouched ignites a flame on trick candles
and when the words wash ashore
i put them down on the page
bees buzzing through my head because the more i write the more i have to say,
i can never stop writing.
or maybe i would say i let the pen control me and don't bother to fix my grammatical mistakes because if i wanted perfection
photoshop is sitting right there on the side of my screen but i don't want her to be perfect i just want her to be a reflection of me.

maybe on another day i would tell you a secret, yes i would say that we're all writers,
painters, creators
but some of us choose to make it a habit, and some of us make no choice at all
because if i didn't write then i would
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