Something about writing feels illicit
My notebooks fill with poetry, thoughts, worlds of idea
Writing never ceases
But the sharing
It feels
Illicit
My desire to be known is present
But to be known in a sea of others seeking
It feels impossible, and if possible... it feels illicit
My desire to be known is ever-present
My writing bares my soul
If I could wear it near my heartbeat on my sleeve
I would
But to post it in the cogs of the web
To share slivers of my soul for likes
It feels illicit
My calendar has a recurring reminder to write a post
So I write
But my calendar has never reminded me to "hit post"
My writing feels like a secret
Something delicious that feeds my being
My desire to be seen by other beings is chocked by the crush of having to share on something so cold as the myriad of .coms
So I cease to feed the feed as my writing feels illicit as it has become more and more, just for me.