I AM A STAR WHEN I WRITE
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Why do I write?
An almost unanswerable question, to me…
Like asking, why can’t the blind see?
Why do people cry peace to fight?
Why do I write?
I write to defend...
I write to offend...
Doing so without contrite!
There are certain things that should be said,
And if you won’t say it, I will!
I can’t hold in the way that I feel!
If I couldn’t write the truth I’d rather be dead.
Once there was a murderer asked, “WHY”, like many are.
OH YES! Killing is wrong, of course I agree;
However, a part of his statement applied to a small part of me.
His answer was simple, “kisses are sweet and so is being a star.”
I don’t remember the first time I ever felt this way.
I do remember my first favorite poet; Winnie the Pooh.
He had written an ode to his honey and I wanted to write one too.
I don’t recall a silver spoon, only a pen and paper on the tray.
Why do I write, you ask?
It was written in the stars!
Growing curious-er and curious-er, like the secrets of mars.
It is my life’s forever unfinished task.