I Don’t Write
I don't write, but when I do, the words flow from my brain like waves when the tide rushes in. I'm writing a short essay about how I don't write. How ironic. I don't write, yet sometimes I do. Specifically, I want to edit the beautiful words others string together to form magnificent works of art. Someday, I hope to be a book editor at a company like Simon & Schuster. So here I am, starting my life at a four year university, majoring in English because I have no idea how to become a book editor. Reading books, for me, is like seeing through someone else's eyes for a little while. I see their world, their friends, and their life. I feel what the characters feel. I find myself calling out to them, "Don't do it!" or saying, "I know exactly how you feel." I don't write, but when I do, it's usually a form of poetry or simply free verse. If you'd like to read something I've written, here is a poem I wrote this year when my best friend was killed in a car accident on New Year's Day titled "Goner": "All I feel is the warmth of your body, but that has been replaced with an icy sting.
All I can see is your beautiful smile, but now it's gone.
All I can imagine are your bright blue eyes, but now their light is out.
All I can hear is your laughter, but now it has faded away.
All I can smell is you, but that has been replaced with the stench of death.
How can such a beautiful soul be gone so soon?
So many promises made.
Now, I guess they will have to wait.
So many things left unspoken.
So many hearts are broken.
So much pain and loss.
My stomach feels like it's going to toss.
I can't fathom I'll never see your beautiful smile, bright eyes, hear your contagious laughter, feel your warmth, or smell the rich scent of you again.
You're gone, and I guess that makes me a goner too.
You took part of my heart with you when you left.
I felt it take flight the minute they said you were gone.
So I'm a goner, just like you."
Most of my writing ends up coming through when my emotions are heightened. His death sparked some writing in me, but after I realized he was actually never coming back, I knew what I had lost. I had lost my inspiration, my best friend, my love, and my balance. Therefore, the second time I tried to write after his death, nothing would come. This is how far I got on a poem titled "The Sparkle": "Sparkles come in many different forms. On a tiara. Or nail polish. A wedding ring. A pair of shoes. A leather chair. The glare on glass. The raindrops on my window. The tears streaming down my face because the bright eyes I once knew have lost their sparkle.
You had a magnificent, blue sparkle in your eyes. A sparkle I'd never seen before, and that's how I knew you were the one for me."
If you couldn't tell, I don't write. But when I do, my writing becomes magic. Thank you for your time in reading this essay with some poetry!