I saw your show last month. I think I've been wearing the shirt ever since. I bought the one with the rain cloud and the rain drops...because I believe in wearing my heart on my stomach. The ink is bleeding on the shirt, and the ink is bleeding out of my heart onto every page because I can't stop pouring. And I guess this letter is from the poet in my chest to the poet in yours. If I could sit down and talk to you, I'd ask you about the barricade that I hit every time I write something and realize no one will ever read it...and I'd tell you I envy you because you get to scream it from a microphone. But my poetry doesn't talk. My poetry says books...and you breathe life, not pages. I wish I was made of magic like you. Then I could stand up in my beat up blue jeans and scream about all the things that I love and hate in the world. And I could tell girls they are valuable...just like you tell girls they are worth more than "that." And, "that" is why I'm writing you. The same beast that once ate your life up, eats my life up too.
I wasn't pretty enough to stay in love with. I couldn't counter a magazine. This is me with my microphone--screaming as loud as I'll ever be: This might be as big as I'll ever be.
I might talk to you about that too--
If we ever talked "poetry."
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