Writing is an Astronaut and a Bipolar Teenage Girl

 

Sometimes,

writing is like

digging through a dumpster,

looking for rare art,

or hand-sifting

through the shards of a broken mirror,

seeking a single piece of perfect reflection.

 

Sometimes,

writing is like a new lover.

It is unexplored,

untouched.

Every inch of skin,

each smell,

each taste,

each sound

excites

and builds the anticipation for more.

 

Yet, it can also at times

be the arms of that solitary soul,

that husband, wife, or partner,

whose arms have held you,

whose lips have enfolded you,

whose heart has known your

victories and defeats like no other.

 

Other times,

writing is fear.

No – it is terrifying.

It is a violent attack,

that tears into you,

splits the skin,

and exposes what we really are.

It lets what’s precious pour out of us,

from wounds, new and old.

 

It is the predator,

stalking us in daylight.

An invisible adversary

that only writers can see,

lurking in deep and dismal shadows,

waiting for the time

to take its prey.

 

Writing leaves us wounded,

scarred and spent.

Even if we survive the struggle,

we experience the unrequited

sacrifice of unsung soldiers

returning home from an unpopular war.

 

But writing is freedom.

Writing is the Master Key.

It is the emancipation of the soul,

the abolition of slavery;

for all thoughts, once penned

are owned only by time.

The very act of writing

is revolution.

 

Although, it has to be said;

sometimes writing is just pandering.

Self indulgent, masturbatory

glad-handing.

Very often it is a cheap crack whore,

with spider veins and missing teeth,

that is beaten, pissed on and forgotten

once the condom is filled,

as the perpetrators move on

to their next sex crime.

 

Writing can be a orbiting planet,

from one season to the next.

It is a noble knight

in polished armor,

a pimp in a shark skin suit,

a mother,

a prophet,

an astronaut,

and a bipolar teenage girl.

 

It is probably been easier

to write about what writing is not,

but that would be missing the fucking point,

now wouldn’t it?

 

HG – 2016

Edited 04.05.21