writing

theres something in me that longs to be a writer
a painter with words
a potter with language
that can not just touch your soul
but lift you up by the spindles of your aura
carry you back and forth through time and space
draw you in and push you out of my experience of emotion
make you love like youve never tasted
and all of that before you ever reach the first period.
theres this greatness I sense that can only be achieved by finding a way to take you where Ive been, show you what Ive seen, and carry you through my dreams in a matter of seconds without you ever having to turn your head away from the screen
an almost free picture show with words, cause even I know that time comes at a price
and every second that you stick around to keep reading
every rapid eye movement to the next word
your watching and waiting for the phrases to turn is my payment
and the commentary of your response, a tip.
ive never considered this kind of art as a job but its certainly a profession
like the mmm behind good coffee
the sigh after good sex
the laughter between fast friends
the coagulation of nouns, verbs, and adjectives
as a means to express love share.
see Ive already been there, I just want you to go and know the
love of the run-on the
drama of the fragment
feel the pain of the elipse
the need of the apostraphe and glimpse at the passion of a good editor to wrestle through it all.
I long
with great desire
to write
but not just for me