I write because
I’m an artist.
I draw,
I sing,
I paint,
I dance
Through words.
I write because
I’m a dreamer.
My words make my dreams come true,
And my day just gets
A little brighter.
I write because
I’m a talker.
That’s how I stay in touch
With people from my dreams.
Surreal,
But alive in my words.
I write because
I’m in love,
With the little things.
I love the smell of the ink
As it runs across the notepad,
Racing against my thoughts.
I love how
My thoughts don’t make sense,
But my words make sense
Out of them.
I love when
I finish a piece,
It stares back at me
Expectantly.
Waiting for just a pat on the back.
I write because
I’m zipped.
Sometimes jumbled words
Lingering at the tip of my tongue
Refuse to find a voice
But gush out frantically
Once I lay fingers on a pen.
I write because
I’m desperate.
Sometimes I need to see a perfect world,
Where there are
No unfulfilled wishes,
No broken promises,
No regrets,
No mistakes.
I write and I find myself
In that perfect world
And at least for while
I believe it’s real.
I write because
I should.
To give voice to the unspoken,
To give a finality to the uncertain,
To defeat the unbroken,
To defend the unvigilant,
To challenge the unquestioned.
The pen is indeed mightier.
I write because
I’m hopeful.
Maybe, just maybe,
It makes a difference.