On Writing

every day i write words on a page. type them on a keyboard.
string them together like shiny beads.

what are these words? just adornment?

do they make me a better person than the one i am when
i roll out of bed in the morning, looking much the worse for wear?

i feel different when i write. i feel like the real me, but that sounds so silly because, of course, i am always the real me. i can’t be anything different.

but all of the censors that are in place when i am face to face with people disappear when i write.

all of the doubts, the insecurities, the nerves.

gone. . . when i write.

if you talk to me in person you might notice that i have difficulty coming up with specific words when i vocalize. almost like stuttering, which i did as a child.

{does childhood stuttering return with age?}

writing feels more like my natural language than speaking does.

it feels like the voice of my soul.

and i can only hear that voice when i

write.