Release2 mins 131 2 mins 131
Most of the time I don’t even think about what
I write, my fingers are drawn to the keys of
My laptop with the faded letters. The words
Flow out of my head and down my arms and out of
My fingertips, a flood of words that I can’t
Find when someone asks me why I’m crying.
Words cling to my lips and eyelashes like the
Dew clings to the flowers in my garden in the mornings
And I catch them and spill the puddle
Of emotions onto a blank page with a blinking cursor.
It helps, writing things in a form that
People dismiss as boring or wishy-washy,
I adore it. The ocean of words inside me,
Allowed to ebb and flow into seas and rivers
And streams and finally to trickle out of my blue painted
Fingertips out into the world.