Sarah D. Shearer

A poem

I write like a faucet, spewing words senselessly in every direction.
Messy, disorganized, but pure–drenching through paper and filling pages and clarifying soul questions.

I write like a race car, fast and calculated and with the intention to win. What?
I don’t know yet.
But not to write is to lose.

I write like a flower grows, constantly, yet no one notices.

I write like I breathe, without thinking.
The words are in my bones, I must let them out.