Comfy like Marshmallow Pillows

I really don't have anything to say tonight.

I just feel like writing.

It's like, word therapy.

Often times I feel like I'm going to be sick if I don't sit down right away and write a poem...anything I write for myself is unedited, spontaneous, and real.

(Note, this does not include research papers.)

So I was just sitting here feeling like I was going to succumb to above sickness, when these two little birds flew into my window and said I should post on my blog.

It's dark outside, and my window is closed. So it was weird.

Anywhoo.

A lot of the time I feel like it doesn't even matter if I write. No one really reads it, and I'm not exceptionally talented--I just kinda write what comes to me.

But then I remember that it doesn't matter if anyone reads it, I write for me.

Words are my tools, I can bend them into intricate expressions with simply the strength of my will and a keyboard (or pen). It really takes no effort to create breath between the letters, and it's such a comfortable feeling.

But sometimes words fail me, and that's when it gets real confusing 'round here.

Things that are infinitely confusing to me often are the hardest to express with my words...

Things like:

Love.

Loneliness.

Direction.

Hurt.

Calculus.

I understand pieces of Love, know the ache of loneliness, search constantly for direction, weep with hurt, and well...I hate math.

Something's happening in my life. I just know it...something big. It's not like I know something's coming...something is ALREADY happening. Some process that I'm being led through. It's wonderful, but it's lonely.

Not like I'm alone though...Talking with my closest friends always soothes my soul. Even if we're just talking about the weather.

But there's something about writing...about throwing up letters on this little space, and they all just happen to make sense.

Don't mind me, I'm just leaving a piece of my heart on the page.