I write.

I write because it makes me feel alive.

I write because I morph into my character. I hate it when I have to kill my favorite characters. I love it when characters I hate get into a sticky situation.

I write because there's something scary about looking down at a blank page. What will I write? Will it work out? So I bring on the pen.

I write because I enter the golden gates of writing, instead of escaping the real world. I snatch bits of Real World here and there throughout my stories, making them more real to me.

I write because, if I don't have the power of words, I don't really have a power at all.

I can't differentiate between

ink stains and bruises but

my skin is eternally coated in

temporary pools

of memory and muse

I fell in love with the moon snail

long before I understood

my own entrails and I

learned to read my palm before

I ever wrote a word of truth

the bags beneath my eyes were

painted by the moon and they

contain constellations my words

are tidal waves and I was never

prepared for the damage

a slap of lightning and grumble of

thunder and then the storm is

through it was never forecast

I have stanzas shifting in my

stomach waiting for life

abandoning poetry would be

suicide and I've got scars enough

to hide behind but each line leaves

me bare here I am scared here but

this is the first time I've

dared to

breathe

My entire childhood was a disaster. I had a junkie mom who had me at 18, a father I never knew, and was alone for most of it. My mom would force me either outside the house or in my room while she had junkie friends over to get high. So I had to find something to fixate on and put my energy and feelings towards. Music or sports wasn't feasible since we didn't have much money and the money we did have for that went to my stepbrother who was rarely there. I had tons of books that I escaped in and figured that I could start writing. I commenced with haikus and poetry and eventually worked up to short stories. I went into the Navy after school and my writing stopped for about six years. When I was discharged, I thought I would dive right back in, but my muse was gone. I tried to put something out and it never felt right, but one day my best friend told me about Prose., and I thought I'd give it a shot. Since I joined, I've written over a hundred posts. Prose. Revived my writing career. Thank you Prose.

Words

Are demanding

Sometimes

Whispering ideas

Other times

Screaming from emotions

Most

Try to ignore them

Allowing them to fester

Infecting and spreading

Filling the body with raw emotions

That need to be released

In an outburst

I choose to write them

Spinning them

Into delicate threads

Weaving golden webs

Glittering

Like diamonds

Begging to be read

By snooping eyes

Greedy for gossip

But this diary

I keep

Very close to me

For only a few to gaze upon

For the thread is fragile

And unwinds

At the faintest snicker

But grows stronger

With every smile

And I understand

That is why I write

In hopes

I can reach

Somewhere inside your heart

And say I have been there

You are not alone

About a year ago, after seeing every manner of garbage on the internet – news sensationalized to make the reader angry or afraid, divisive political rants that created firestorms of arguments between “friends” on (anti)social media, photos that should never see the light of day - I began to wonder if humanity has begun a devolution into something so angry and hostile and hardened, that its sucking every last drop of joy from of our collective consciousness. That’s when I decided to write and publish a blog. And I set some very strict rules for myself: nothing controversial, no religion, and no politics. I wanted to create a safe place for people to recharge their senses of humor and normalcy. Generally, I try to offer my readers some good old-fashioned comedy, but occasionally, I will try to touch their softer side by adding a bit of nostalgia or just a dash of sentiment (never too much!). And some complain, “I laughed, but you also made me cry!” That’s when I know I’ve done a good job. Softening their hearts to feel some tender emotions, that’s why I write.

"Why do angels play harp?" The wiseman asked the writer. "I don't know." he responded.

"Can't you use your mind and think, you're a writer, right?" The man asked once more.

"I'm not as wise as you are, I just write because I want to express myself, when my head is bursting with ideas I just want to put that in a piece of paper before it explodes, give my pen a life and let the ink flow with the rivers of words, seas of phrases and oceans of paragraphs. Can you hear it, sir?" The boy asks the old man.

"Hear what?"

"The angels are laughing."

The writer's answer did not amuse the wise man, "I'm not crazy my little friend!" he cried out.

"Hear them play the harp, some of them are even holding trumpets!"

"This is madness!"

"No, this is fiction, angels play the harp because they want to show their emotions through music, can't you hear them? That's what they want to do... that's how I made them."

"Then why do you write?"

"I write because I want to, like you, you always think as if it's one of your basic physiologic needs." He answered, smiling.

I write because of the sparking sensation I get in my stomach when I write a good story. I write to give characters the life I don't have, in either a good or bad way. Writing is like my night. During the day, I'm busy with homework, soccer, and friends. At night, though, I'm alone in the dark with my thoughts and feelings. I write to

sort out my life. It's like my planner. I love to make the villains of my story have their consequences. Sometimes, though, I like to mix it up. Maybe the villain gets his way and the character has to live around it. Writing is like diving into secret world. Only I can chose what happens. This is my story, and I have a right to feel free while writing it.

Words fascinate me. There are 26 letters in the alphabet and we can take those letters and make you bawl. We can make you furious or encouraged or blissful. Confused. Outraged. So many combinations and we can do all of that with just 26 letters. How amazing is that? Words have the power to change lives. To inspire. Wouldn't you want to save someone's life? Wouldn't you want to help to open someone's eyes and free them? Wouldn't you want to encourage someone to follow their dreams?

It's a huge task to take on. To set your mind to show others they're not the only ones out there who feel a certain way. To tell someone that you do care and mean it with all your heart. To be there when they feel no one else is. Words have been there for me when I thought it was hopeless and if I could even be 1% of what helps someone, I will do so. I free myself from the thoughts or worlds that are fluttering inside me and maybe I can inspire someone. Make someone feel something. Anything.

Words are magnificent, and I will try to do them justice.

Words bring

The power

Of thoughts and feelings

Into reality

Their eternal power

Forever ringing

Turning the immaterial

Into the concrete

Building and destroying

What cannot otherwise

Be touched or seen

Touching mortals, immortally

But even when my words

Are

Never heard, never seen

I write for me

Because the voice inside my head says Don't ignore me

Without me you'd be

Completely boring

I am the voice which gives

Life to your limbs

Feeling to your skin

I am the you within

If you leave me here

Buried in silence

I will cause the rest of your brain

Violence

There is a burial mound called Maeshowe in the Orkney Islands that dates around 2700 BC. I went there with my parents after graduating university in England. We stood inside the stacked stone tomb, sunlight shafting down onto runes carved into rock older than pyramids. The words were simple. Olaf was here. Sven is an amazing sailor. They were graffiti carved in the 12th century by Scandinavian marauders. It was hilarious. Offensive. Ironic.

Writing, reading, speaking, singing; of all the ways words come out and linger, writing has gravitas. There's something downright addictive about slinging language onto a page exactly how you mean it, leaving it to cool and returning to the same sentiments rearing up at you with their raw, original power. Only this time you believe it more than you did when you wrote it because now it has life. Writing is learning to take the lead in a tango with immortality and who doesn't want to live forever?