I want
to write.
No, not like that,
silly –
not the little
dizzy
scribbles
that pass for
a grade.
The first
winter snow
out the window
kind of writing.
The sniff
of green
kind of writing.
The spray of
the waterfall
over the cliffs
kind of writing.
When you
speak words
those people
will
listen to,
not
just hear.
The kind
of writing
that leaves
a sprig
of imagination
to grow.
The kind that
bubbles up inside
you
and you're brimming
too full to the top
and it seeps out of your skin
and your hands
and it gushes out of your fingers.
I want to
write
the future
and the present
and the past
and what matters.
I want to write
the colors of the rainbow
and the birds in a V on the
autumn wind
and the crackling
of a fire in the woods
and how writing is supposed to be.
I want to write
understanding.
I want to write without
edits and
mistakes
and drawbacks
and spelling
and standards.
I want to write.
Now do you get it, silly you?
