When I Write…


I am alive when I write.

When I write, I’m a butcher. I dissect my thoughts and feelings, I carve until I pinpoint my motivations, I find my truths. 

When I write, I’m a baker. I take those dissections, those thoughts, feelings, and truths, and I whisk them together into words, into phrases, and sentences, paragraphs and stanzas. I pour my creations into forms and watch them transform. I share them with you.

When I write, I’m a candlestick maker. Whether those creations are reflections on the past, ruminations on or celebrations of the present, or hopes for the future, they are intended to be a beacon of light burning to forge the way for the future, for me and for others to follow. 

When I write, I am me. I take my essence and I weave it into words. I crack open my ribcage and invite you in. I welcome you. I need you.

When I write, I am alive. 

-image credit couldronsandcupsakes.com

36 thoughts on “When I Write…

    • Me too. I used to write everywhere. In margins, notebooks, scrap papers. Then in my young adulthood, I just stopped. The level of over-fullness I experienced for many years is indescribable. I had such difficult processing anything because I didn’t do it in words, in writing. A few years ago, I’d began to verbally share my processing with M, but it was just coming so fast, I needed more. I started writing again, and it has been like a flood gate opened ever since. It almost gets worse…the more I write, the more I want to write! And it’s scattered, not just one form. It’s poetry and prose of all kinds. Reflective pieces, emotional dumpy things, you name it. But it’s every. Single. Day.

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