I Write

It’s a sickness
This need for words
This hunger for them burns me
My lips form hardly a hundred
And yet I crave them.

It is more than a hobby
This is part of me
I cannot stop the flow
Them, the wave of words
Pushing out of my fingertips.

It is not something I can turn on and off
The urge comes upon me
My fingers start to itch and my the wheels in my brain turn
I stop paying attention to those around me
And I write.

It’s a bubbling fall of liquid copper from a steel pot
It’s a wrapping, clinging jungle vine refusing to let go
It’s an ocean of deep blue, vast and mysterious
It’s a patch of moss, creeping, inching over speckled stones
It’s a hawk, a predator, without limitations
It’s a worm blushed pink, burying deep into black soil, chained to the Earth…

It’s a sickness
This need for words
My lips form hardly a hundred
And yet I crave them.
I write…

AN - a little poem that came to me in math class today. I seem to do a lot of writing in math class, which is a little strange if you think about it. Anyway, I hope you like it! It doesn’t rhyme (as usual…stupid muse…) but it’s another little bit of my. Hope you appreciate it (sometimes that’s more important than liking it really…)

Late March

a.k.a Chelsea