In Myself

It was the words that saved my sinking soul.
It was the author's pen to paper and bare thoughts and naked conscience that clothed my cold self in warm pages.
It was the ink that touched my fingertips that displayed such intense vulnerability in its flowing ebony substance and taught me to embrace transparency.
It was the verbose language that inspired me to speak louder than my demons that wrapped their vile, calloused hands and gnarled joints around my mouth.
The solace in words ever grows and each disappointment nestled in myself shrinks in the presence of comforting sentences.
That is why I read. That is why I write. Because I feel inadequate I press on like those before me who have breathed inspiration into not only others, but into themselves.
I fall in love with words because I see so much more than aesthetically formed calligraphy on worn paper. I see beings and ideas. I see promises to heal. I see those words in myself.

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This Poems Story

I have never considered myself an excellent writer. I don't always get good grades on papers. Sometimes I miss a comma or misspell a word. Sometimes the ink smudges on the side of the page due to my left-handedness. However, I am learning to embrace writing even though I think I am inadequate and scared to share my work. Writing is so much more than presenting a perfectly typed out, grammatically correct page of letters. Writing allows people to share the deepest parts of their souls like any other art form. I suppose this poem about how we fall in love with words and the ways those words and sentences touch our lives in ways other art cannot.