I AM A STAR WHEN I WRITE

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.