Why do we write,
why do words gush
from us like blood
from open wounds,
like flowers from asphalt,
like birds from hollow trees?

Why must we pull
them from ourselves
like bloody teeth,
like splinters of wood,
like wailing infants,
like beautiful babes?

Why do we seize
moments and freeze
them in chrystalline clarity?
Why tease out
the essence, why torture
out the secret?

We cut them like
diamonds, we free what
lurks within these
mundane moments, these
bits of time and place,
oblivion and eternity.

We receive them as
they receive us. We
make them beautiful as
they make us sane.
We take a moment and
make it a world.