Its 4am and I all of a sudden woke up
With chapped lips missing your company
And a stomach all tied in knots
Meanwhile my head buzzing with thoughts of you
Missing you is hell.

The wild at heats, and quiet in life
The ones who seek a better and bigger world
Whose imaginations radiates from their fingertips
The ones who find alter egos in book and characters
The people who will travel the earth to experience every possible sight, smell, and sound
Even the ones who live for the taste of a perfectly cooked meal
Or just the guilty pleasure of a mere Hostess snack cake
Do you notice how the stars twinkle so bright under a clear perfectly clear night sky?
Or how the clouds seem creep along in the chilled midnight air
But then there are some people who notice how flower petals are the closest you’ll get to knowing what a color feels like
Some discover the feeling of freedom in a paper and pen
These are things nobody seems to notice because they are trapped in their busy 21st century lives
I admit, guilty is charged
Those media induced people have learned how to survive
But the others are learning to live.

I love the day time silly one liners
I love the late night heart wrenchers
I love the early-late night truths that pour out of me
I love the bursts of inspiration out of nowhere
The things that I have to write down RIGHT NOW or I’ll forget them
I love the way my pen seems to glide across the paper
I love the ink blotches later found on my fingers
Like little trails of words that have now stained those lines
I love the sloppy, thought out, nicely written, typed, tear drop stained, words
I love the blatant obviousness and I love the hidden meanings
I love the suspense, sadness, furiosity, joy, excitement, heartwarming, celebration
That I can create with just this little pen and my emotions
I love the way my brain doesn’t over think
I love how my mind moves even faster than my hand can write
I love the freedom writing gives you and I love the shackles it creates
This is yours and only yours, no givesies backsies
I love the way my writing is me, it’s you, it’s someone who doesn’t exist It’s the little girl who’s scared of the thunder at night, and the woman who don’t need no man in her life
It’s hopeless, it’s depressed, its shaky anxiety struck, its lifeless, its cold, its bawling right there on the paper
Tears do not need to be seen to be heard
From the bottom of my soul
I love to write.