I wish I could wake up and cry words on to paper.
drip. drip. drip.
Not all words would be sorrow from boy drama, like most girls seem to write.
They would be tears of discovery and adventure. They would be tears of the places I traveled to in my dreams. They would be tears of joy found in the simplicity of things.
To write in the late hours of the day. To write when everyone is watching. To write as the head has been lifted off the pillow in the middle of a sleepless night. To write in secret.
To bash and burn. To guide and comfort. To bring color to a dull world.
To add a book to the bookshelf in a library. To add a book to the New York Best-sellers list. To ad to the front page of your local newspaper.
drip. drip. drip.
Sot sobs become become poetry. Headache and scream-filled tears become the best novel ever written.
Dead. Dead are the tears of the fearful poet. Tears that could have touched the hearts of many. fear. fear. fear. dead. dead. dead.
The eyes of a writer are greedy. Give me more! they cry. And then the tears. tears. words. flow like a river because somehow the greedy eyes trigger the flow of tears.
They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe.
Avec amour,
Maddiey Beardall
