What writing is like for me

It’s like I’m feeling my way through the darkness
to the heart
my blind gaze searching with my ghostly arms
feeling the way ahead for me
and then I encounter it,
The heart,
and my ghostly arms go through it
taking away some of it
opening it, and the feelings pour through,
The magic, and then I write
rote becoming something else,  something frantic and magical
the words coming faster than I can write them,
and some other times, my ghostly arms,
they encounter the heart so hard and so fast that they are solid for a second,
they pull it with them for a second
Leaving my elastic heart to snap back in place.
I feel it.
The hurt, the pain, waves of critical malady bleeding through,
reaching out and embedding themselves in my words
I’m coming through in a torrent that is beyond magic
A torrent that is wholly me, all me,
so much so that I want to hide it,
put it all back
and sew the valve shut.
Those are the best words
Maybe the worst parts of me
The ones I write and shut away.


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