My Pen Is Mightier Than A Sword Yet It Still Slits My Throat

I wish that I could write the same way that I think, the way that I feel, the way that I love:

Obsessively,

Relentlessly,

And without regrets.

I wish that I could pour creativity onto the pages every day, writing for my life as if I can’t seem to catch my breath. It’s the same way I feel when I fall in love – overwhelming and all-consuming. I smother people in my arms to make them feel me, and when they begin to suffocate, I let them steal the breath out of my own lungs until I am the one gasping for air.

If I could write the same way that I feel love, I would never run out of things to say. Prose and anecdotes and metaphors would fill my head until my mind is overtaken by one thought (you, you, you), and I have to tuck logic and memories into corners and folds that won’t touch my muse. I wish I could put on rose-colored glasses when I write, overlooking any mistakes and fallacies, the perfectionist in me too distracted by how pretty everything looks. If I could write the way I love, even strangers would know my (your ) name.

If I wrote the way I felt grief, my pen would bring me to my knees, forcing my hand to paper, breathing down my neck until I have finished. Its presence would be like maddening hunger, demanding me to feel its misery until I am begging for the feeling to pass. It will not, not until I am done. I wish I wrote the way I experience grief, being dragged through the five stages, knees scraped and my throat raw from trying to be heard. Constant pleads escape my mouth, my eyes red. I cannot escape it. The pain would be unmistakable, unavoidable, holding a gun to my head and strangling me with a noose until I have choked out every last word I want to say. Only then is it finished.

 I want to write the same way I feel anger. I would feel the inspiration run red-hot through my veins, bubbling up into my chest until I can no longer contain it anymore. A blank sheet of paper would be the victim of my animosity, each word a furious punch filled with crude intent. The anger I feel is seductive, tempting me to curse everyone out and forcing me to the brink of my sanity. It leads me to the edge, dangling what’s left of my restraint in my face until I can almost taste it on my tongue before shoving me off the cliff into a turmoil of my own rage. I can’t help but scream. I have to scream. I have to let it out. Let me out. 

My ability to write eludes me. I am chasing it down the hall and as it whips around a corner, I can almost feel it slip through my fingertips. There are times I find it at a dead end, but it always seems to outsmart me. I have so much to say, yet so little to write. I do not know if it’s because I don’t know how to articulate my thoughts accurately, or if everything I want to say has already been said. I do not know. I feel grief towards writing, like I have just lost the love of my life. I feel anger towards writing, wondering why I can’t seem to fully keep it in my possession.

All this grief and all this anger was once love. I wish I could write the way I love. I wish I could write with love. That’s all it is.

Love.