Scrawls and Scribbles.

REVATHY MENON
XII A

You look at my words,
And seeing them in verse,
You ask me why I write, why
I must fill the world with more
Emotion than it can process, and
Burden  it with yet more cryptic
Words and metaphors that
(Maybe) no one understands. Why,
Oh why, must I put out my fickle beliefs
And whimsical thoughts, using my
Freedom of expression, just for
Others to ignore, or misunderstand,
Or worse- misquote? You think
I have a wound to heal, and cuts
That bleed, and that's why I turn
To paper and ink.
But how do I explain that writing
Is not just cathartic? How do I
Explain to you that writing, to me,
Is not about the echoes of my words
In unknown minds and distant
Hearts? That it is more about
The subtle echoes of my random
Expressions in the scrawl of
My hand, and the scribbles in ink?
And that I have an unexplainable
Belief that the paper I
Scribble on, and the ink I
Scrawl with, somehow, just
Somehow, understand and
Comprehend my incoherent
Words and hidden emotions
That I myself fail
To understand.