Emotionally Speaking

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 liberation
Until 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.