Void of emotion,I can't recall the last time I held one in my hand,Without the help of a No. 2 or a Papermate.It takes a sort of emptying of words:Dripping from my eyes,Crawling down my arms,Sliding across my fingernails.A glorified liberationUntil feeling returns.There! I recognize it once again.When I am finally immersed, standing knee deep in the poem,No longer idly detached, more like my cat mid-air,Full of hope. Sure. Alive. Aware.I guess what I need to say is that I need this.I said need.Don’t confuse this for a hobby,Or a misguided phase, like that time I antiqued.It’s not even fair to say it’s an amusement,Because sometimes, writing is whatever the opposite of amusing is.I need it regardless,Because after I walk through many of my poems,If I make it to the other end,I find more emotions than I can describe:Even joy.