What good comes of simply writing?
She dared to ask me, a hurricane of emotion,
Queen of inarticulate rants and whispered poems,
Did she really ask such a thing?
Writing is like swimming both closer to and away from your thoughts,
Literally diving into the belly of the beast, the demon that is my mind,
And yet, managing to trap it unto a piece of paper,
I would have written about modern feminism,
And rags to riches, poetic stories of love and good over evil,
But the ugly truth to be told,
I, in fact, do not wish my thoughts upon any living soul,
Because they are frightening, tormenting demons,
Thirstily searching for a host, bloody vermin they are,
And they multiply, infest my head,
The only way which I found,
To rid them from my brain, is to physically pull them out,
With no voice to scream, my lips twisted like branches of a tree,
My mouth taped, closed shut,
The only way, in which I am forced,
Is to ignite my fingers, suddenly powerful,
They do the screaming for my mouth,
There is much satisfaction in killing hefty thoughts,
In seeing them entangled with the lines of the paper, trapped,
Ask me again, I’ll give you this same answer,
What indeed is the use of writing.