So I'm sitting in class, I'm fifteen, and I think I'm broken.
I choose Patricia Smith's poem, And Then She, to read out loud. And her words make my words look like dust on the road to her heaven.
And I'm thinking, "I'm speaking her words that breathe her life. I can't do this."
But I do. I stuttered and placed my hands in the prints she created with her mind and that's where I felt I was free.
This is why I write.
I write for the ones who know what it's like to create worlds with words, and I write for the ones who can't.
For those who walk away from a pen and pick up a paintbrush because we're all artists.
Humans, trudging through the mud, leaving behind trails of unknown masterpieces; history. That can never be replicated.
Humans. Who breathe in, and then out, releasing energy of life that can only, very simply, be called beautiful; art.
And I wring out every drop of passion that I can when I read other's words out loud. Because we're all thirsty; drink from the pools of glory made from the sweat of all those who have felt pain.
This is why I write. To unclutter the mundane, dirty bookshelves in my mind, and throw them, successfully breaking them into a chaotic, yet navigable art form.
So, if my writing ever makes it big and beyond, if I would ever have the incredible honor of inspiring someone with thoughts of my very own making, read them. Place all the passion into it that you could never place on paper. Read them out loud, alone in your bedroom, to the walls that have seen all your flaws.
Read them and read them strong.
Read them, and let them thaw.