I want to write.
I want to write about thoughts and feelings,
want to come up with metaphors for my pain.
I scour my brain, looking for something to write, mind empty.
I wish to give life to the sorrows left in my heart,
to give the loneliness in me a name.
I want to write.
The words are a frozen faucet, building with no way out until it explodes,
my mind whirling a million miles a minute yet stuck as if in limbo at the same time.
The capability is there, the passion is there, the talent is there.
I want to write.
I crave the high of putting pen to page,
or the sound of the keyboard clacking as I type.
I want to pour myself into the phrases I create, scratch out, reword, delete, try again.
The screams in my head are begging to be silenced for even a moment as I think about nothing but what comes after the black cursor blinking at me from the bright white screen.
I don’t want to write,
I need to write.
Author’s Note:
I really got back into writing a few months ago, for the first time in a while. It felt like I could write for hours, creativity flowing, my brain a never ending supply of ideas. One day I had an itch under my fingers to write, but couldn’t think of anything. I had felt desperate to write, so I wrote what I knew in that moment.
Brooklynn Shaw | 17 | Springfield, MO | @brooki.babes on TikTok & @its.brooklynn25 on Instagram
