I write because,
if I do not write,
I burn.
thousands of words flaming,
killing me from the inside out
the only choice I have is to let them out
so I survive.
yes, i write to survive.
I write so that I may die a natural death
at the age of seventy or eighty
instead of dying at the age of fifteen
because of these words,
embers,
throbbing in the core of my being.
they burn like death’s fire
and i,
in return,
give them an escape
I cramp my hand
and my mind
to let them escape
but
at the end of the day
they remain buried,
stuck at the tip of a pen forever clogged
I can’t let them out
even if I opened my very soul
and pried out every single word.
they would not escape
they would still burn
death’s fire
death’s slow, menacing hands
wrapped around my heart
choking the life out of me
doubled over, gasping, I cannot breathe
without exhaling the smoke
of these many, many words
I pretend to be normal
I tell my friends I am
but in truth, I am a corpse
haunting the world while I live
because i know my death is imminent
unless I can release these words
let them flow from heart
to hand
to pen
to paper
then, only then, will I live
then, only then, can i die satisfied
if the heat of these words shrivels me up
from the inside out,
I will die,
but not as a person, as a shell
a skeleton
something less than
flesh, blood, and bone
all I want is to die as a human
die the death
of a person
who has given all they have to the world
and is finally happy
i am not happy
because i can feel these words
choking, killing me
i must survive to let them out!
the world must hear them.
that is all I ask for,
time, sweet time.
I will find a way to let them out.
I know I will.

thank you.