It's a process
what I feel, in the moment
at the very second
when words, feelings, phrases
stream through my mind,
in a jumbled manner begging to be poured out
The release of all the pent up emotions
scrambled onto paper
somehow making it all seem vivid
the rise and fall of my heart
pounding rhythms of my brain
aching pains gripping ahold in my chest
electricity pouring through my veins
In those moments
I'm unaware of myself
how I could be so raw, so exposed
Re-reading is hard, like trying to crack cement with only your fist
to critique and decipher the thoughts
making your knuckles bleed
pulse with pain
What does it mean
as bruises form and bones crunch
it hurts, ripping away the skin
when you write it's you without a cover
you're emptying your soul onto paper
where someone can look right inside you
Looking back on old poems
I don't feel those feelings anymore,
not in the power hungry manner I did before
it's in awe of how beautiful I described it
whether etched in harsh crisp words of fury
or painted with soft strokes of sadness
it could be blooming with fiery exhilaration
I can still reminisce on what I felt
it's made me who I am
As a writer and a person
