The Method To My Madness

I.  I am a writer because it is the only way I can truly be heard.


          There will always be brightly coloured words dancing just beyond the grasp of the human mind. They fall into confetti, never really understood, but are spun as silk into fractured sentences. We all can see them glistening in the snow-globe eyes and blown glass hearts of the innocent, as well as in the cold stares and empty whispers of sin.




II.  I am a writer because I never thought I would be.


          Amidst the candy coated dreams, however childish, "Writer" was ghost. Surrounded by shimmering, clown-coloured lights, gumdrop fantasy, and sugarcane confessionals- Tricks of the mind. Really, we're traipsing on the crushed remains of coined phrases and cons. Bleeding words into blank pages, a treat for the eyes and a toy for the twisted minds. Metaphors and calligraphic letters begging to be understood, manipulated, recycled. We see though the strike outs; craving technicolour ideas we all feel but could never express.




III.  I am a writer because I cannot keeps things to myself for long.


          Insanity follows, we sink. Sulking into the closeted skeletals, frantically seeking protection from hazards and worries that flutter down, ash butterflies settling into makeshift hipbones. Plastic hearts, battered following years of constant refusal. Rancid thoughts, placed quickly into shimmering packages used to hide the acidity. Wrapped carefully with slightly translucent masks that slowly melt away, made presentable by flowing silk ribbons, the colour of ocean surfaces that twinkle like falling stars.




IV.  I am a writer because it allows me, if for only a moment, to pretend all is well.


          Look at me and see porcelain cheeks and sparkling eyes, shadowed by angry clouds and made wide by small fears. Gaze through me, beyond the soft skin shell, past the muscle and tissue, into my very being. You'll see the tape of glowing energy latched onto cardboard bones, securing them in place. The spark of liveliness that remains, holding tight to a paper ribcage, hanging. Hushed voices and careful ideas are clinging, dripping. Pollutant strands of strawberry dew, providing substance. Watch the rapid rise and fall of manic breaths; the breath that means I am still struggling on this fishbowl planet, that I have not yet given up.




V. I am a writer because my world will always be falling apart.