To Write

What is to write?
Tell me, love
For tonight I long to know.
Is it a confession of a child inside,
A cry
Or a dancing note?

From the mind of a giving beggar
Tell me, what do you see?
For the world that hates
And many share,
Still you love it for what it sees.

When you give a part of you
For all the world to read
Is it enough to have expressed,
Then wait for the next
One to bleed?

I have been a liar all my days,
Cheated joy from my life
For fleeting moments of self pity,
Thus words spilled in sadness
By the knife.

For romantizising horrid truths,
And depths of loneliness,
I regret I was a maker
Of melancholy
For a vision less.

So tell me, love
What is it to write?
For deeply I should care
That no writer has stumbled as far as me
In shallow pursuit
Of some things sought but unfair.

I long once more
To learn of this and grow,
To write with both eyes open.
That I may share a piece of life
Fully as it was given.