I Don't Bleed Ink, My Pen Does.

A picture is worth a thousand words
But a thousand words can paint a picture
And then some
Because your imagination interferes.
I have to write.

Because encasing it in letters
Legitimises my emotion.
Like the words are a net
Over a misty haze of meaning,
Clarifying it, bringing it down to earth, to analyse
But letting enough escape
Through the holes to retain ambiguity
And leave it misunderstood.
Just how I like it.

The words are like the brush strokes of a passionate painter,
Following his heart through his hand
Dealing with the details
Later.

Re-visiting and re-writing
Is polishing the dull urn
Of a loved one’s ashes,
You take great care not to tamper with the contents
Full to the brim as they were
Of memories and motivation.
You shine the outside to make yourself feel better
To look conscientious.
Yet the inside lies at peace.
Untouched.
Like tip-toeing round a sleeping child
Unwilling to disturb their dreams.

Impression forms expression.
I take it in I write it out.
I have to write.