Letter to Emily

West Oak Lane 1018

May 13 1886

Lost Bird Ave. 2222

Mrs. Dickenson.

Dear Mrs. Dickenson, you are possibly my favorite poet, and author of our age. You seem to capture things how they are and never sees to amaze me with your effortless messages that you effortlessly bleed from your heart, into your hand, into your pen, onto the pager, and into my heart. Your writing style is one that I deeply enjoy. In your poem “A Word,” you write something short and simple. Yet it delivers a powerful thought provoking message that kept me awake for many nights as I thought about the words I so carelessly spoke, in this case, murdered, or gave life to.

In your poem you talk about how some people say that a word is dead when spoken. But you say a word just begins to live. I think depending on the word and the context it is used the word’s life span can vary. What I mean is if I were to say “I love cookies,” while petting a dog, the word love will only live for that brief moment that it is spoken, then it dies. But if I were to say “I love you,” while looking you in the eyes while watching the sunset, the word love will live on much longer than the previous use. For the meaning of it and context is now different and the meaning will live on and stay with you for much longer there for the word just began its life, and lived a full life.

What I have just said is me getting excited about simply one of your poems. But I have a feeling you are hoarding thousands of poems and stories behind the closed doors of your bedroom, and that only your death will allow the public eye to see them all. Now I must admit if it were up to me I would live in my room and not leave ever too. People are not quiet my fancy so I understand your decision making. But I do wonder what led to you not wanting to leave, were you hiding from something? You are a brilliant writer, but I believe your work suffers because if you were in the world you could get much more inspiration from life of the earth, but, it is not my place to judge. Your writing is still flawless to me and your view of death is quiet realistic. Now I do not wish to do everything that you do, I mean that in a humorous manner. I do not think parents would be very comfortable with a man lowering cookies down to children from his room. So I will leave the neighborhood baking to you Mrs. Dickenson.

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