This poem feels like someone taking the writer by the shoulders and saying: don’t hold anything back not now, not ever.
There’s a trembling honesty in the idea of writing as if the gallows were waiting, as if truth were the last thing you still owned.
It asks for words that bleed because only what is real painfully real can reach another human being.
The poem treats vulnerability as a kind of courage, the moment when the heart stops hiding and finally speaks in its own voice.
There’s a deep tenderness in the call to share our madness so we don’t have to feel alone inside it.
It believes fiercely in the innocent heart still beating beneath all the masks we learn to wear.
The invitation to write in colour, in awe, feels like a reminder that wonder is still alive somewhere inside us.
The moment the mask slips is described not as shame, but as liberation the spirit finally breathing without permission.
Writing becomes an act of love here, a way of holding each other steady in a world that keeps trying to unravel us.
In the end, the poem is a plea to write so truthfully that our words become a lifeline for ourselves, and for anyone who still remembers that love is the point of being human.
Our written words are so valuable. They are the track we leave behind when we are gone. They build and create, destroy and challenge, comfort and chage. Our words are inportant
I love this! It is a battle cry for the passion of the word. Writing raw without second thoughts. Nietzsche said "I will only read what is written in blood." You have described the sacred relationship between the writer and the word.
We all write for a reason, but the best reason is love
I agree!
This poem feels like someone taking the writer by the shoulders and saying: don’t hold anything back not now, not ever.
There’s a trembling honesty in the idea of writing as if the gallows were waiting, as if truth were the last thing you still owned.
It asks for words that bleed because only what is real painfully real can reach another human being.
The poem treats vulnerability as a kind of courage, the moment when the heart stops hiding and finally speaks in its own voice.
There’s a deep tenderness in the call to share our madness so we don’t have to feel alone inside it.
It believes fiercely in the innocent heart still beating beneath all the masks we learn to wear.
The invitation to write in colour, in awe, feels like a reminder that wonder is still alive somewhere inside us.
The moment the mask slips is described not as shame, but as liberation the spirit finally breathing without permission.
Writing becomes an act of love here, a way of holding each other steady in a world that keeps trying to unravel us.
In the end, the poem is a plea to write so truthfully that our words become a lifeline for ourselves, and for anyone who still remembers that love is the point of being human.
Thank you for your experience of my words, Adrião!
"Write about your insanity so that
We can feel validated in ours"
Love.
Thank you, Hannah!
Our written words are so valuable. They are the track we leave behind when we are gone. They build and create, destroy and challenge, comfort and chage. Our words are inportant
I agree, Nat. It has power to go either way.
Inspirational motivation -
What are words worth …..
🙏
Thank you, Mark!
They are worth their weight in gold. <3
🙏
Yes yes yes yes 100 times yes
Thank you for your enthusiasm, Corina!
Hi Rea,
Such a profound message in a beautiful poem. Yes, we must write as if there's no tomorrow.
Yes! Thank you, Beth!
I love this! It is a battle cry for the passion of the word. Writing raw without second thoughts. Nietzsche said "I will only read what is written in blood." You have described the sacred relationship between the writer and the word.
Brilliant quote by Nietzsche! Thank you for your encouraging comment, Stephanie.
Write like you are Pink Floyd playing to Pompei 🫶🏻
Yes!🫶
I’ll take this to heart ❤️🔥 Thank you!
Lovely! Thank you.
Ooo, this felt like a call to arms…I like it! 🙌❤️
Thank you, Esther! ❤️❤️
I defy anyone not to be switched onto write something by at least one line somewhere in your poem. It hits between the eyes and wakes you up. Thankyou
Thank you, Joanne!
Brilliant and beautiful and true, dear Rea.
Thank you, Stephen!