On Writing

Based off of a conversation with a friend.

I was asked once

What I enjoyed most about

Writing.

I told her

That I hate

The sound of my voice;

The way it grinds against the ears

And breaks

When I laugh

Or sing.

The accent that doesn’t exist

The throatiness of when I wake up -

I hate my voice.

With writing there is a different kind of voice

One that alters to your words -

I can be

Whoever I want to be

Without changing my face

Or body

Or note.

I can be trashy

Or profound

Or stupid -

I can be anyone.

She told me that

She thought that was cool

That I liked to write

And a great past time.

I told her it was not to be made light of -

I said to her

Writing is my life.

And she said

That was incredible.

Writing, I said,

Was a way I could explain how I felt

Without the mess of explaining.

I could put it in a metaphor

Or personification

Or a simile.

I don't have to say exactly how I feel

And it doesn't matter if people really see it as that

Because they all know what it means

To them.

I told her

That's the beauty of it, really

How it's never just about you

How other people look at your work

Relate it to something within them

That could be totally different

Or exactly the same.

And they'll underline it

Or highlight it

Or read it over and over again

Because it never gets old -

Though it was never really young -

And it describes them so perfectly

Or gives them a helping hand

In a way that speech can't.

And she said

That was beautiful

And my heart swelled.