I've written a thousand words that have trailed behind me for decades.
If I attempted to turn around and pick them all up as if I'm collecting shells from a beachside, it would be wheelbarrows full.

Write.
Just write Natasha.
Quit attempting to perfect this gift and just let it unravel.
Don't criticize, judge or feel
Guilt over your need to shut away and bleed the thoughts that you're unable to speak onto paper.

Release the fear that captivates you. It's that uneasiness in knowing the pain that spills once I form these words into being readable and they sink into my heart and become truth.
Truth equals pain for me.

It's the fear that this truth might just **** me.
Is it possible to die of a broken heart, I often ask myself.

Battling this fear to write this novel is the one thing holding me back from healing.

Allowing my entire being to sink into it, and rage against the words as if I'm the flat of the ocean being ravished by the never ending waves.

Tossed and turned by the emotions that come with the process that forces you to heal.

It's the still, that resides between each word written, that quiet space that leaves me restless.

Calm the infuriation, unclench your teeth and let the words be written into reality.

My need to burst into a blood pumping release that lightens my heart from this heaviness is enough to shake the floor of the ocean.

We are each called on mission to touch someones life, or to be touched. When a person writes, all their feelings, mind, and emotion go onto that 8.5x11" sheet of paper. She may not have a spiral notebook, but will always have ink or graphite and something to write on; for she knows not when the lightbulb in her brain will blink. The lightbulb goes on in the strangest places: driving, in the grocery line, at the gas pump, or even on the toilet. She must have that ink ready, she'll write on her hand if she has to. At times, the only tree to suffice is a paper towel or toilet paper, but she makes due.
    He always attempts to use words that will evoke feeling and is not afraid of the darker side of human nature, or himself. He crosses words out, moves them around, lets it sit for a day and starts over. The editing process never stops; he picks out poems from ten years ago and switches things to fit today, but always keeps the original.

We may write in hopes that one day someone will read it and be touched, or we may use our pen as catharsis for ourselves alone.

Either way, we write.

A storm brewing at the back of my head.
Moving towards my temple region.
A forecast of words to come.

Ideas, as clouds, forming in my mind.
Thunder strikes, a bulb lights up.
Words come pouring after.

As the land of script, the words
touch. Influenced by the winds
of doubt, they may stray off path.

*Here I am, waiting
for the storm, thunder roars but
no words.

everything is meaningless and i
mean it. there's no point to this
there's no point to me there's no
point in existing other than to
breathe and love and make sense
of why we're here and
i'm sick of people telling me that the smart ones
are the sad ones
because i'm not smart,
i'm sick.
i'm vomiting up all the
feelings that are so overused
and overexaggerated that i cannot
tell what is normal or not
until someone informs me
that daydreaming
of slashing wrists and leaking
red when i
drop a glass of water
isn't normal. i used
to think everyone was
this way and i used to
think there'd be some
cure
to this, some magic pill
filled with stardust
and a tendency for
chemical codependency
that would make
me stop throwing up
all the feelings
bottled in the pit of
my stomach. (the
magic pill made me throw up,
just not the bad things. only
the good ones.) and
i can't stop thinking about
how everything is meaningless
and we are all here
and they are all there
and no one will ever
know one another completely
and that's not okay with me.
it's not.