I dot my i’s and
cross my t’s,
a perfect ballerina
dancing across the page.
Graceful as a butterfly
soothing like a summer sunset.
Sweet, simple, flawless.
But already there are
scribbles, mispelings,
blots of ink and suddenly
this perfect canvas is no longer
blank.
Oh, to write like a wildfire,
no remorse or formulaic
meter!
Just bared wide, torn open
displaying my wholeness as
us poets so often do.

I want to say something about cursive writing (this might seem random).

I’ve seen articles saying that cursive writing is a “dead art,” that computers have destined it for oblivion and questioning whether cursive writing should be taught in schools now-a-days.

But if you plan to go to college - relearn it and practice it, because you’ll need it.

Random hot fact. The first time you have to handwrite a multiple-question essay test - where each answer requires five hundred to a thousand words (a written page) - handwriting, in block letters, is unsustainable.

Your hand will literally cramp up - dog, you’ll suffer, your essays will suffer and so will your grade.

Writing in cursive is faster than block lettering and with a little practice, it’s effortless.

My sister told me this once, and this morning, as I watched other students, one third of the way into our essay test, grimacing and flexing their aching hands - I just smiled to myself.

Yeah, you can thank me later.

I've come to realize the fragility of life itself as of late; a delicate dance of psychological and physiological elements, converging in the process of sustaining a human life.

These components become so complexly intertwined; wrapping themselves around each other whilst expanding and contracting.

My biological systems may keep humming along, subconsciously—yet it is in my mental environment that I choose to allow them to continue. A fascinating concept.

Neurons fire in my brain, telling my arm to extend itself outwards in front of me as if to point at something interesting. More signals are sent, instructing my arm to bend at the elbow; I am now staring at the palm of my hand that rests a few inches from my face.

Neurons continue to spark and my hand slowly twists for me to examine its backside, and then it returns to its original position. My eyes are entranced as they explore the landscape of my palm; its creases and folds resemble a map of sorts.

Fingers methodically open and close—fist, open palm, fist, open palm. My grey matter is aglow as a colorful lighting storm of activity pulses throughout.

Eyes close for a moment.
Thoughts.
Memories.
Thoughts.

They open up again to glare at this dead hand. That’s the fascinating part, the fact that the very signals that are sent to trigger these hand movements—or to trigger my lips to form a pucker or toes to tap, tap, tap to a beat—can also instruct those fleshy appendages to move in such a way to extinguish my own life.

No safeguards? No life-preserving big red button that my subconscious can press in order to save itself?

Nope.
A choice.
A dance.

And I’ve decided tonight…I’m staying alive.

Because somewhere buried deep in my psyche is a little wrinkled-up piece of notepaper with the following words scribbled upon it:

“The sunrise is just over that hill. The worst is over.”

I write my words in cursive so they know how to.
The lines that bind us together can seem so thin,
like a dash of ink, it can be wiped away.

An island only knows water for the way it extends beyond the horizon.
The peaceful splashes of rippling waves can’t pacify the feeling of loneliness;
a passing bird squawks as it carries on its journey.
And the sun keeps rising day after day.

Have you ever felt the jolt of holding someone’s hand?
The spark of life that is embracing them in a hug?
We were made to connect,
yet so many of us sit aside
unplugged.

The singer on the stage begs us to sing along;
and for a moment, every stranger is bound by word and sound.
That post-concert depression hits hardest during that long drive home -
riding solo.

I write my words in cursive so that they know how to.
Because if they do, maybe you will too.

I wrote a letter in cursive
Perfect lines of painful words
I cannot say I don't deserve it
But i cannot say it didn’t hurt
Shimmering fireflies dimly lit the gloaming
While my tears softened the paper beneath the tip of my pen
And when the ink spread across the translucent parchment,
I saw your face.
And i heard your voice,
And i felt your sorrow.
So i put the letter in a locked drawer
And made the empty promise of finishing tomorrow.

Let me be the cursive lines that flow from the black ink to your torn up notebook.

Let me be the harmony in your ears
Let me be what you write about at 2 am

Let the thoughts of us transfer to your pen
Flow from your mind and onto the white blank page.

They won't teach you cursive anymore, kids.
We're in the digital age.
You've got an electronic page.
What are things that don't fade?

Please know there isn't a substitute for writing things down.
As I type this on my phone.