“A Love Letter to Writing” Bia Edwards

The beating of my heart reminds me I am alive

a steady beat, trapped in a bone cage

with the rhythm of an indigenous drum

the hide of some animal being struck;

its lust for life is carnal and fast,

rage of spirit subsequent to pen flicking paper

essential to fingers striking keyboard.

I star-gaze to feel small just as some look at ants to feel big

each sings into your eyes and spills into your soul with an incisiveness-

and it’s true that unassuming humanity lurks behind every corner,

The beating of our hearts opens roads and secret entrances to rooms

adorned with woes of existence and the laborious blooming of marigolds and lilacs that grow

despite the anguish of bleeding red and growing rough and sore in new skin,

altruism shines through the cracks and treachery nips at ankles.

My pen scrambles to catch this.

To mold and transfigure an invisible language, to craft nothing into words that will spill across

paper like flame chasing oil.

My heart beats for this.