I feel most beautiful 

when my hands are blistered and 

splattered with ink from gripping the pen 

too tight while working on a particularly passionate piece. 

When I'm all out of ink, my phone makes a great substitute in a pinch

Upon questioning, I'd claim nothing compares to the weight of a notebook in my hands... 

But honestly? It makes no difference to me. 

And on that note I'm off...fingers flying across the keypad. 

I demand, I question, I cry and pray

I play a six string quartet-

And then it's over.

The contents of my heart 

poured out in 14 meager lines.

Then comes the hard part:

Sharing it with you.

I fear you must tire of my endless chanting

"poetry, poetry, poetry"

Never singular, it echoes like a pulse. 

There are moments you forget it's there, your heartbeat, 

And then suddenly, everything slows

And you are anatomy and blood vessel than soul. 

I like the moments where I am creature more than being. 

Where my hands are mere tools and my heart organ. 

I'm less than thought, less than any grand illusions of importance. 

This pleases me.

This, simple act of existing. This, wanting for nothing but eat and drink. 

That if any minute now the glass cabinet should fall over me and I lose my sight, mobility in my limbs, my ability to write...

Still then, I am not less alive.

Till then, I'm imprisoned by this in perpetuity:

"poetry, poetry, poetry"