I come home

Throw my backpack down

I sit at my desk

Take a deep breath

Pick up a pencil

And begin to write.

All the ideas from today,

All the people I’ve met,

All the things I have read

Are yelling at me,

Clamoring

Inside my head.

They need to get out.

As the graphite crumbles onto the paper,

My ideas are released

Like air escaping from a balloon.

The tension is let out of my body

My shoulders relax

My pencil flows,

As if I am painting a masterpiece.

Today,

I write,

I met a dark man who told me he was in love…

Why?

They all ask.

Why do you write?

If I don’t,

I say,

The ideas inside me die.

Until I’m left with just the cold wind blowing

Inside my heart.