Writing is messy. Seriously, it makes you face some of your greatest fears—memories that haunt your brain; the ones you wished to lock away but are forced to face. The ghosts of your past life control your fingers as you write and type. It is the opening of an old scab that you picked at far too much; oozing with slimy yellow pus onto the page. Unfortunately, the grossest messes tend to create some of the best work.

Writing is like being a toddler with finger paints and Play-Doh. Blues mix into reds which create a violet doh as you sculpt and cut and pack it into something that you can eventually morph into being proud of.

One of the most annoying things about writing, though, is the agonizing torture known as writer's block. Hitting random keys like a skilled pianist to create your masterpiece. Or the shitty first draft that'll eventually be your masterpiece. You hope. At this point in the writing process, you're just hitting random keys and watching "Z" zoom across the screen. You will groan in agony as you try to decipher what it is that you want to say exactly. Why can't it just go from your brain to your computer?

Let's not forget about rejection though. Rejection is a beautiful curse in the writing world. The view of rejection is always negative, yet in writing, it's kind of an opportunity. Watching your piece grow from the infant you nourished into something more makes you biased, sure. It casts a rosy haze over what the actuality of your work is. The rejection is your reality check. It tells you how your piece has a long way to go until it's fully grown and can stand on its own. So, when you do get an accepted poem, you'll know you nourished your baby to its full potential.

There's also this weightless, euphoric feeling you get when you're in the moment. You're writing and be damned to page numbers and words counts; you're writing freely. It makes your body float in between the moon and the stars—an astronomical entity as you write between the galaxies of your words. Your brain creates an infinite number of galaxies each time a new idea pops up. The feeling of excitement is too much for your body to contain. It's like someone stuffed your body with helium as you stare at what you've created. It's an incomparable adrenaline rush.

But most importantly, writing is the strength it takes at times. It's easy to say it's messy, but it's not just that. It is reliving things you wish to forget. It's reliving the pain and trauma you've desperately tried to bury beneath things that are softer and kinder to your brain. These darker thoughts and memories are like spears being thrust into your brain when all you want is peace. And to obtain that peace—the one thing you so desperately crave—you must write it one last time to finally put it to rest.