Some poets create such beauty when they write–a piece of art.
I create something ugly. It comes from a dark, dank place. It’s full of pain and rage and despair.

I was perfectly happy just reading books. My love for the word (language) sated.
I did not WANT to write. Had I wished to write, I would have taken creative writing classes.
I would have learned how to develop ideas, direct my ramblings into cohesive paragraphs.
I would have learned when to use a colon, a semi-colon, and ellipses (boy, I love those).

The times I wanted to write, I’d sit down and stare at the empty page; rearrange my pens; shuffle some papers, in the hopes that inspiration would hit. NOTHING would happen. Then, at the most inopportune time, the NEED to write would engulf me.

I feel out of control when this happens. I can’t make the words wait, or they will be lost. I can’t staunch the flow or else I feel restless, uneasy.
I become consumed. I think of nothing else.
I feel grubby with need, a nympho with words.
I am left frustrated, unsatisfied and miserable.

Reading takes me outside of myself. I can dream.
Writing brings me inside of myself–a nightmarish place of haunted memories and unfulfilled dreams.

My thoughts are too long to be a poem, not cohesive enough to be an essay, too scattered and unorganized to be a short story, and too short to be a novel.

There are times I feel it is a curse. There are days I rue the moment I spilled my words onto paper.
But…I know that if I hadn’t, it would all still be festering inside of me.
A curse? A cure?
It all depends on the perspective.

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