Release

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.