To Write

Is a conduit for catharsis, is an antidote to emotion, is an assuage from existence.

Reality, minimised into words on a page, permutations of nothing and yet everything in pen marks and ink. And it is a process that hurts but eventually evolves into something so addictive. Because it is the feeling of removing your feet from a too-tight pair of heels after a long day of overlooking signage and papers and other words that are composed in a way too clinical to make any sense, any impact beyond administrative.

To write is to stab the nib into the wound, and paint paper red as it seems and settles into a stale brown. Emotion fresh, served on a paper plate of calligraphed fusilli spirals in red, black, blue.

It is feeling the blood pool and ink spill onto a page, articulate, eloquent, incoherent, incomprehensible, syllables and punctuation. It is the up and down harsh strokes of scratching the surface, ripping the skin to burn and feel the beauty of poetry.

The platform on which my stanzas are my stage and the grand show is a metaphor, strung together by wires and a microphone, positioned against a wooden backdrop of a poetry slam bar with the words scrawled out in a white felt tip marker: to write.