Often

Typewriter1

Picture From: https://pixabay.com/en/antique-classic-retro-typewriter-1867444/

 

Often

I stare into a blank page.

A ceaseless void.

Hands steady on the keys.

Waiting.

 

My fingers are everything that frighten me.

They are weapons and flowers.

Thorns and roses.

Tendons twitch, begging me to strike an act of violence,

An act of love.

 

Often

My hands are silent in the hurricane.

Words are frozen on my palms

Like pieces of humanity that I refuse to share.

My eyes are sore.

The salt of the sea stings.

I grit my teeth and gaze

Upon the depths below and above.

Speechless.

 

Occasionally,

I speak.

My fingers pound and rip into the keyboard.

The pen scratches, tears, and bleeds into the page

Everything.

Love Pain Hate Hurt Death Oblivion Family Joy Grief Friendship Loss God Humanity.

 

Occasionally,

I see stories.

Stories that laugh and weep.

Stories that heal.

I become intoxicated as I hear the keyboard

Tap tap tap–

Breaking the silence

Smashing the void

Creating peace and the sigh of relief.

“You don’t have anything if you don’t have the stories.”

 

Occasionally,

My hands find peace.

My wounds heal.

I find my story.

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