words settle my heart's tantrums.

Dear you,

I'm writing this not because I feel poetic or because I'm bottling something up inside.

I'm writing this because I have nothing else to write.

Because I have this mass of letters free floating in my head and no where to put them. I can't make sense of any of them, and I'm starting to wonder if maybe the letters in my head aren't meant to be words at all, but are trying to be something more descriptive and tell me something else.

 I have nothing to say and everything to say in the world, and nothing to write but every word that matters.

I have college essays and future award-winning novels and 5 AM tweets and poems about love and loss and wandering. Lots of poems about wandering.

And I have poems about my dad and poems about my brother and poems about my mom and a few about my past.

I have essays about wanting understanding and essays about controversial topics and essays about Shakespeare and how I'll never be as great of a writer as Shakespeare, because the man knew that art is theft better than anyone and he knew how to make it his own.

I have writing that is all my own.

I have tweets like you wouldn't believe. I have self-depreciating tweets and self-praising tweets and tweets wondering about how come I can't get a boyfriend and tweets laughing about my life.

I have so many stories in my head about characters that don't even exist, about people who never will exist except in my heart and hopefully some day in the imaginations of everyone who reads my books, I have stories about love and stories about adventure and stories about wishing for something more and stories about discovering that something more.

I have stories that are about my life and I have stories that are entirely made-up.

I have so many words and no where to put them all and no way to make them into the things I truly want.

I have letters. Lots, and lots, and lots of letters. I have letters stashed away in drawers and I have letters in the hands of friends in faraway places and I have letters thrown away in the trash and I have letters waiting to be mailed and I have letters saved in my drafts and I have letters in my head and I have letters written on my heart, to my heart, from my heart, I have letters that are my heart.

Because that's what all my writing is.

My heart.

My head is filled with my heart and they aren't understanding each other very well right now, but I think my hands are pretty good translators.

Sincerely,
xx
Blue