My writing seems to wrap itself around me.
To form it’s own poetry, and use my hand as it’s communication to the paper.
My own experiences swallow me whole, my words grab a pen, and the rest is history.
I dont know a lot, but I do know that every word I’ve put into a book is true.
I know it all happened to me, but when I read it back, I swear it’s someone else’s story.
So here are just the facts.
I light a honeysuckle scented candle when I am sad.
I sleep with a Himalayan salt lamp on, not because I am afraid of the dark, but because I am worried of what I could be missing if I can’t see what happens in it.
I wear a lot of oversized t-shirts with slogans of insignificant meanings, and call it comfortable.
There is always a bottle of water by my bedside.
I check the doors everytime I get up.
There’s an hourglass on my countertop that gets flipped everytime I pass it.
I wear opalite jewelry because I was told it stands for persistence.
Peggy Lee is all I listen to in the shower.
The more chaotic the room, the more calm I feel.
I buy my coffee from New Orleans because I believe magic is brewed there.
Tabasco sauce is my salt, and my pepper.
I prefer champagne to wine because it makes everyday feel like a special occasion.
I dont know if I’ve ever worn a nice dress without spilling champagne on it.
When I’m about to cry, I turn on “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries” by Judy Garland, and repeat it until the feeling passes.
I swing my words as if they are an axe, and assume no one will get hurt in the process.
These words are not meant to be poetic, but they are meant to be mine.