Why do I write?
It’s quite simple really.
My Words are pieces of my Soul
They breathe
They live
They grow
and mature
Just as I do.
They are from another dimension of
Myself.
A dimension that only They reveal.
I am my Words.
Each and every syllable kisses my Spirit
as They escape the tips of My fingers to paper.
I am in love with my Words
as a Lover adores her beloved.
I fear my Words
as a child fears the dark
while she clutches to her stuffed Pooh bear
and whimpers in the middle of the night.
They touch a part of myself that remains hidden.
They reveal my Angels
and my Daemons.
They show my Strength
and my Hamartia.
My Words have the power to shatter Me.
Ma perché scrivo?
È l’unico conforto.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Why do I write?
It’s quite simple really.
My Words are pieces of my Soul
They breathe
They live
They grow
and mature
Just as I do.
They are from another dimension of
Myself.
A dimension that only They reveal.
I am my Words.
Each and every syllable kisses my Spirit
as They escape the tips of My fingers to paper.
I am in love with my Words
as a Lover adores her beloved.
I fear my Words
as a child fears the dark
while she clutches to her stuffed Pooh bear
and whimpers in the middle of the night.
They touch a part of myself that remains hidden.
They reveal my Angels
and my Daemons.
They show my Strength
and my Hamartia.
My Words have the power to shatter Me.
Ma perché scrivo?
È l’unico conforto.
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