I Write To Live

I live to write, I write to feel I write to remember things imaginary and real I live to write. Without my pen, my life means nothing Void of beauty, spirit, and love I live to write. When my ink caresses my white paper, the contrast white and black My heart pours out, never to be taken back. I live to write, my one true love Spontaneous inspiration, thoughts from above. Some think writing boring, alas, they have no life My writing is my escape, from the labels of humanity. They label us, the proud, the few, Call us ADD, retarded, mental, or loose. But we smile inside, our disguise is complete We live to write, together our souls meet. The power of kindred spirits, our imaginative and brilliant minds unite A sweet smile, handing over the pen, we create, not fight. Our words are the weapons, destruction of boredom is mass Ironic that such power is held by so small a lad or lass. The power of writing, the thing for which we live To keep my writing, my very life I would give For without life there is no writing, no writing no life. I write to live. As the healing hand of a surgeon My pen to emotional wounds. My words to uplift the broken To repair the downcast. I look into the emptiness of a person’s eyes, straight to their shattered heart I hand them a pen and paper, show them where to start. In a flash, ink splatters across the page The pen seems to take a life of its own Forming words or pictures, a person’s life story in essence. Finally done, exhausted, their whole heart scratched onto a stack of pages A load has been lifted from their soul, happy for the first time in ages. When I hand over the pen, the life I give I live to write, I write to live.