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.
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
That they deserve a poem of their own.