I write.
I write to bleed off the poison
of mania and sorrow
that creeps into my thoughts
and soul.
I write to cast off the shame
of who I am.
Bipolar
full of light and shadow.
I write to show what holds my heart
today
because tomorrow it will change
twist and sway
and I want to have a record
to look back at
hold on to.
I write to find myself
and lose myself again
in a new world
an older world
of ink blotches and stained fingers
where things are different.
I write to put myself in the shoes
of another girl
with other problems and-
hopes
I write to understand
that what I know of worlds
is limited
but through silver ink and straining-
limitless.
I write to tell myself a story
that my spirit knows
but my mind does not.
To put into words the yearnings, pleadings,
all the thoughts I have
running pure wild
though empty space.
I write to sing myself a song
that soothes me into slumber
or else wakes me from fever’s hold
and sends my heart racing-
to, away, even I can’t tell.
I write to take my breath away
and pull it back into my body
catch my thoughts tumbling
from tongue and teeth.
I write for the solitude
of pencil scratching on paper
ink bleeding across my forearm
keys click, click, clicking.
I write for the conversation between
two halves of the same mind.
I write-
I write and write and write-
to hold myself in my hands
like a globe of suspended
starlight.
