We Might Just Be Selfish

 I read once in a poem that writers are selfish creatures,

and I thought, I might as well agree.

A poem, a story, any literature is a medium

in which the writer pour forth the contents of her heart, mind, and soul.

It is where we write what we cannot speak,

where we express those feelings, 

those things we cannot possibly convey.

It is the convergence of all those beautiful  and wonderful,

sick and crazy, dark and hollow, selfish and selfless thoughts of the writer,

amplifying to such a degree that it can move other people,

it can influence, it can make them feel they were not alone.

The poems that we wrote,

the songs we composed,

the stories we create,

those things were meant to benefit us.

It lightens the burden of having those thoughts cramped up,

one over the other, in our tiny little heads.

It gives us the lee way to express those negative, positive,

dark, and beautiful things that kept going on in our head,

those things that kept our insides glow with pride and happiness,

melt in disgust, tremble in fear, and crumble with self loathing.

It is in writing that we experience the closest thing to being truly free.

These things we feel, we think, 

could just need a little sugar-coating,

or we could write it raw, hot, and burning.

We just want to be able to convey - 

those things we can't find the right words to say,

those things that kept piling up inside us,

that hides us and isolates us.

We write to express those feelings, desires,

that might define us. 

It could always be us before you,

our needs before yours.

So yes, we might just be selfish.

But in being selfish, do we writers help other people.