The physical act of putting pen to paper
is something that I try to avoid.
Because
It makes my wrist hurt and
I collect a fine coating of graphite on my hand and
I'm bound to mess up at least once
And the eraser leaves those smudges
That make the perfectionist in me shriek with displeasure.

It's not until I force myself,
journal in hand,
To sit down and move the thoughts out of my head
That I remember why I love writing.
It takes this jumbled mess of
feelings
words
thoughts
And turns them into something.
It turns me into something.
And it's worth all the
messy hands
sore wrists
and mistakes in the world.