I write to feel
the spark of my pen against the page
and when it ignites, I watch as
my words burn, threatening
to devour me.
Thoughts are insubstantial
by themselves, but on my paper
they explode into wise words
that can be understood.

I write to let
myself go, unleashing a flood of creativity
that pours from brain to hand,
fizzling against my fingertips
as it transforms to waves of ink
that wash over my notebook,
preserved for the next reader.

I write when
I am angry,
when my pen is my sword.
I attack the page,
black bleeding into
paper as I stab and slash and slice
until my temper has
slowed
and
I can’t
be angry
anymore.

I write when
I am ecstatic,
when my words are sugar.
They boil and bubble onto my paper,
energy and excitement spilling over
in a sweet, succulent mess,
coating the page until it gleams like candy.

I write when
I am frail and weak,
using words to
lift me up when others
push down.
My words are bricks building a
podium where I can stand
so my voice will be heard. 
My words lift me high above the
deafening crowd so I can
concentrate on being loud
while the deep rumble of life
threatens to drown me under
its immense weight.

I write when
I want to paint self portraits with pens,
capturing my emotions with
each swift stroke,
forming an abstract picture of myself
that only I understand,
learning more about myself each time I
dip my brush into the paint.

I write to reveal
who I am.