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September 18, 2017

September 7, 2017

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I Have a Friend Who Writes

September 7, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Have a Friend Who Writes

 

I have a friend who writes

Writes, with a pen and paper

Instead of a keyboard.

Her pen scratching against the surface

As her words pour out Like water from a dam.

She only writes in blue pen.

Maybe because black is too dark

Or maybe because blue pens are cheaper.

The ink does not just wander onto the page.

It builds up behind her eyes

Presses against her brain

Longing to get out.

They flow

Down her arteries, through her arms

To the wrist and the tips of her fingers

And out through the nib.

Her words form a pattern.

Tapestries on a white-washed wall.

They breath life onto the canvas

Even when she writes of death.

Her poems are full of angst.

Betrayal, heartbreak and hurt.

You could cut yourself on their edge.

Taste the grittiness of them between your teeth.

Raw, like an open wound.

Sometimes she writes so clearly

It's like being punched in the gut.

You almost double up, out of breath

Unable to think

For her words have power.

More power than you realise.

They come from the heart.

A sad, chipped heart

But a heart none the less.

From those apertures

Come words

And lines.

So good,

That they deserve a poem of their own.

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