If you've ever woken up inside a dream, you already know why I write.
If you've ever screamed "feel-words" at the clouds which lie low, you already know why I write
If you've ever sang your lungs out because you thought no one was listening, you know why I write
My mind love the idea of romanticism
Creating something out of nothing
To lay like a beached whale in the grass, looking forward, imagining you're very small, almost meaningless
But so very meaningful because who knows of the small girl who lives in the grass
The girl who walks by the shoulders of beatles and rides on the backs of shrews
I write because I read, the pages of black and white
Crisp and picturless
I imagine I am the heroine, the temptress, the assassin, the wicken
I can do limitless things at the end of a lead pencil or ball point pen
I can ignite the imagination of the sheltered, the boarded, the chained and hoarded
We live within the Ideas of the writer
I am the writer and I live in the ideas of the read.