What is writing, after all? A form of communication. A listing of symbols through which we convey meaning. I am of the belief that it’s a kind of magic. It’s time-travel. It’s the undenied profession of human existence. It’s a ritualistic expression of self and discovery. It’s catharsis, murder without jail. It’s growing up onContinue reading “What is Writing?”
My teeth are the resting place of a hodgepodged smile. I press my fingertips into my mouth, to feel them. My fingernails are searching for a shred of my voice that might be stuck between my teeth. Instead, I find seeds of doubt sticking to my molars, and this poem hiding under my tongue.