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Because Ernest Hemingway Told Me To MAG
Why do I write these words?
Why should I put myself through
The pain of raw exposure
When I could wrap myself in my warmest blanket,
My skin?
Why do I continue to scribble
When I could go on living inside myself
Instead of letting years of saturated tears saturate this paper?
I write –
No,
I bleed these words
Because Ernest Hemingway told me to
I bleed these words because I fancy myself
a revolutionary
I fancy myself a fighter and a freedom seeker
I fancy myself a brave battalion of one
A solitary militia
And sometimes to be free
You have to rip off your skin
And let the raw exposure of bearing your soul
Make your insides sizzle
And hot salty tears vacate your irises
Because freedom will never be free
And the price is pain and patience
Balanced with a tough exterior and something bordering on aggression
Even a tidal wave of light pushing relentlessly against darkness
Has to cry sometimes
And I,
I took the tears
And the sizzle
And the raw lack of skin
With an open heart
And I let it slowly mend my fissured mind
For that,
I get to fancy myself a revolutionary
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Sometimes, however cathartic it may be in the moment, writing comes back to bite me, or it causes me pain via vicious cycles of thought. So of course, I had to put even that down on paper.