[example, of my own experience]

being ripped and torn apart--

feeling the words claw at the back

of my throat, raking claws up and

down the walls, leaving trails of blood

it is the opposite of feeling empty,

instead, being overflowed with so much

e m o t i o n and having only one place to

go to let it out, prose, my home away from homes

writing is rewiring my circuits

and sending test frequencies across the board

screaming and shouting and yelling because it works, it works, it works

and then feeling on top of the world once the words are out

except, this desperation i feel,

it is cacophonous and shattering,

one word is out but another is coming close behind--

oh, you have one child... no, twins! triplets! and next thing you know, i'm encrouching on 410

and it is my tonic, my addiction

to write these words and say them in whispers

smile around a stanza, an entire poem,

and to feel the words melt the feeling deep inside

this is my relief, my drug, my chocolate addiction

it is a fast-track and one i take wildly, grinning while the engine rumbles

it is the high i get off of living, the toxin in my drink

it is writing and it is my act of desperation and it is my home of homes