A dirty word in this day and age,
Something to be scoffed at
The new cave art of the poor,
Who can’t use or afford a computer.
Never seen as anything more
Writing utensils come in all forms
Ink, rollerball, hitech nib, eraser.
I just want a pen that works!
One that freely flows and follows my fast hand
As I desperately try
is the preparation, the scribble
the initial thought process.
So really it’s the magic – the idea!
In those sullied margins and scored through words
Are the beginnings of something
is something I love, not like a fetish you understand. But clean
and crisp and white and waiting
for it’s story, it’s chance, it’s page to be written.
Like I once was a long time ago,
Is my own special way of telling you
how I feel, what’s going on
inside my tumultuous brain,
of explaining how it feels to be regimented
and governed by external forces.
Used to crowd my fingers like welcome warts.
A badge of honour for me,
indication of writing,
of ideas and feelings transferred, captured, understood
Each curve, loop, punctuation mark
A release, a sigh, a
direct reflection of me.
A cathartic, therapeutic, outpouring
that contains the truth, the words
Always seems so anaemic to me.
It takes away the passion,
Synergy of mind and body
as you furiously translate your heart beat
and firing synapses and desires
A shabby, half prepared way of saying
I’m regaining control,
I’m reconnecting with me.
finding ways of writing again and living,
of saying I Love You Always