My Body is Homeless

Raging extremities
contained in my flesh
crawling through my brain
enough to cleave me into two

How could it be possible
to contain so many of me
in myself
and yet feel homeless
in my own body

How do I know which
one is me
and which one
I should be running away from

I just want to reconcile
all the different things I am
to become one
to become me
to finally feel at home

 

Why write?

They asked me why do I write? I kept silent not because I didn’t have an answer but because I had too much to say. I write because I don’t know there is a life possible without it, I write because I don’t know how to live without writing. Because it seems like the most natural thing to do, like my hands were made to hold a pen and rest it on a page and scrawl words across it. Painting the page with ink and shapes. It brings out the best in me. And, it reminds me who I really am; just a girl who wants to write.

This great urge to write; it is both a curse and blessing at once. It’s like a prison with no lock. You’re free and bound at once. A paradox really.
I write because, for me, it’s not a part, but a way of life.
I write because I have to. Because the need is greater than almost everything else. And this need presides over my life.