writing for me is like surgery

the pen is a scalpel, cutting through the flesh of my mind with erratic lashes, revealing the gasping organs of my thoughts. my spirit is the blood red rage of scrambled phrases surging through the processes veined throughout my body. at times i watch helplessly as it gurgles uncontrollably from within me, drunken stanzas of jagged syntax splattered onto paper without contemplation. other times it’s an explosion of deliberate impact, bullets of hollow pointed sentences shredding the conscious of those reading the remnants of the rupture. there are even extraordinary moments when a loving stroke of the scalpel produces trickles in precision, each droplet falling in measured grace before landing into a paragraph of intended perfection.

most times i am compelled to stitch up the gash before the end of the blood letting, my limbs left bloated from the retention of words swimming in furious dissention within me. however, the ache of refusing to answer the illness of forced silence with emergency censuring is hardly ever easier to bear than baring my soul.

so i sit here, the untrained surgeon with scalpel in hand, not really eager to begin the process of revealing my thoughts to the world. i can only hope with each successive laceration i am left with a scar that is easier in healing than the last.