Every day I wake up and something I want to say is knawing at my ears from the inside.
It tastes like anger, mostly.
Sometimes it is love but even then, it's the fury that something I cherish is not known.
Stories beat on the inside of my skull and if I do not write I talk and talk,
I talk to walls and ceilings.
Stories run free range around my head and for while I let them be,
until I saw the joy that my stories bring and grabbed them by the tail and pulled.
(They say it is like pulling teeth, yes?)
They used to spring from my footsteps like aphrodite from the aftermath of their father,
but now I put my knees to the dirt and sweat acts as golden Ichor.
Stories are bred and tamed and traded for joy,
because if I do not write they bite me back.
They are THERE and ALIVE and ANGRY.
I write because it is a act of lawful vengeance in a world that says shut up.