Word by Word

There is a comfort in writing,
Pouring out my emotions over the paper.
Letting the tears fall as words,
scribbling away my fears.
As the cold arm of terror grips me,
I take my pen and go to war,
until I’ve killed every last anxiety and worry.
When the days are joyful and sunny
I inscribe my best memories,
so that I’d remember,
the day I felt the happiest.
Some days loneliness visits me,
and I write it, a welcome note.
Writing and scratching it all out,
unsure what to write,
has become my life.
My words never seem good enough,
they seldom sound right.
Yet I cannot help but write.
Writing about people
is a bit tricky.
Should I be honest or
spare their feelings?
In elegant scrawls, I show,
how they made me smile.
Messy tear-stained paper
for the times they made me cry.
Places have tales,
awaiting to be told.
So I put pen to paper,
Trying to listen,
to the story of the pathless woods,
endless ocean, and write them all.
I have trouble saying out loud,
all the thoughts that cross my mind.
But on paper they are poetry.
Maybe ink runs in my veins,
where blood should be.
I can’t rest my pen,
not when I can write.
So when storms darken my skies
I can’t help but say,
That’s too bad, but
maybe I can write about it?