Why I write? A question so simple and small.

How else could each moment become history?

Yesterday's memories to the wayside would fall.

I could not keep to myself in silent reverie,

With such wonderous words to describe every sight.

Revived anew from each fading memory.

Inside my mind as I lay still in the darkness of night,

The words tumble around, bursting to be set in ink.

Escaping for others to ask of themselves, "Why I write?"