I could say multiple reasons as to why I write,
But with all these reasons about half of them are lies.
I could say I started to be cool, or I started to be great,
Yet the only truth I have is that I did it to escape.
Writing’s my best friend; it sounds a bit weird.
Nothing has been the same since this guy appeared.
Imagine...an imaginary friend that would only talk in rhymes,
And others could see him too, he’s not only in your mind.
This imaginary friend, to me, is Writing, first name IV.
From day one of his birth he’s never been lively.
Still, there are layers as to why I scribble thoughts.
To escape from the world is merely on top.
Part of my reasoning lies in my desperation.
The need to get away from the fate that I’m facing;
the way I manage to work away from expectations.
And I could continue rambling on about my purpose with the pen,
but honestly, even to me this sounds boring in my head.
I’ve been merely boring lately,
I might as well say this blatantly...
I started writing ‘cause it was fun.
The flow of words were never done.
Yet that’s only why I started, keep in mind that things change.
See before this writing thing was to control my sadness and rage.
I made a pen name and everything, I spent all my time writing lines,
It took a good year before the rhymes and syllables took over my mind.
Now all I think about are words, in different shapes and forms.
Writing is an obsession, the ink is a parasitic worm.
I really can’t help it though, this is still the dream,
I’m dreaming dreams to be happy.
If that means that the art will take me there,
then it may have my mind for years on top of years.
I write because I cannot seem to stop.
I write because I cannot stop the thoughts.
I write because it allows my escape.
I write because I am chasing my fate.
I write because it lets me be sporadic.
I write because I’m a rhyme addict.
I write because it tolerates my rants.
I write because writing is my best chance.