by Elafe Alhaj
“I’m so insecure about my writing only a handful of folks knows that i do write. And i give those who’ve discovered that i do the perfect excuse. That it isn’t something one announces mid conversation. You dont just say oh hey wuzzup man did you read my new piece? Oh i write btw. Nice weather don’t you think.
And i don’t even think of it as poems, pieces, stories or whatever. There just these words and phrases that continues to repeat themselves in my brain. sorta echoing through the inner walls of my skull. Phrases that i catch mid conversation and i think about them. I decipher them. They engrave itself in my head. Adhere to my every thought. Demanding to be released.
Eventually they give me mind splitting headache that weakens my body. And i give in to the body wrecking urge to unleash my thoughts.
Sometimes its the state of Collidment with the stars. Exploding like the big bang. The result of violence is the creation of beautiful series, compatible litters that Forms words. Which forms sentences. The thing about them. Is that they infiltrate our our minds.They touch your soul.
The truth is. I’m selfish. My pieces are my pieces. Part of me. Born from my head.
It’s hard to let them go. And having others reading it. I feel exposed. Naked. Slightly ashamed. I fear judgment and thu i pretend not to. But i do.
I expose myself. I pour in my heart soul and despair. I am i in what i write.
In between those lines. Paper background. The pencil. I can be myself without the judgment of others. I can tell secrets to secrets i know no one will discover.
It’s my safe haven like no other.
Music calms me down but writing unleashes my hell furry with baws of the bold eagle and fangs of repell tigress.
Within those pages I’m a goddess or an unfortunate soul. I sometimes can be seductive mistress. Or a hard core Amazonian warrior.
Within those pages im the queen of the damned. I’m the world.
Within those pages im a heart broken lover. Im as insecured as a 16 year old who shuts out and suffer.
Within those pages i can be not as damage as i am. Or i can use my broken self as a mean to heal.
Within those pages im a force sheer. A mythical creature. I can be the yeng and yang. The darkness and light. I can be the world.
I am it.
In a few lines. Some ink. Few papers. . And music.
I paint worlds in my head. I’ll paint ones in yours. And i’ll only use words of black and white.
But i won’t.
Because I’m selfish.