the reason why

why do i write?
a slight gesture;
a smile,
a sigh,
a grunt,
a grumble
all of these things
take on their own lives
when they leave the body
of the utterer.
A stammer magnified tenfold
can disappear grace,
leaving a muddy heap behind- no longer the item of profundity
it began as.
such configurations are confounding;
some malignant,
some benign,
all different from their intention.
this is a unique horror-misinterpretation,
when one, such as i,
am often caught up in
the simple wonderment of
communicating.
So that is why i write.
my thoughts and feelings
are suddenly concrete and real,
no longer hidden or
subdued in some
silly place behind
my tongue and teeth
where propriety and
sublimation reign.
Here, on the blank page,
I can be as raw or as delicate as i like
without fear of misunderstanding,
(or understanding for that matter)
-as this can be a complete conversation with myself.
i can invent, implode, rejoice, reject, fume, have fun, cry to, and cry about-
i am the hero
and the villain,
the princess
and the dragon,
i am the creator
and the relator.
as i write and heal i have a voice that will not be silenced.