Running out of Time

Why do I write?

Why does it matter?

That the hands fly

to keep up with the mind that is faster?

It's a racing mind,

filled with stories and ryhmes

feeling like I'm running out of time,

time to write what is mine.

I write to believe

to believe I am real

I am here, this is me

I think and I feel

and it's too much to bear

to think I'm not here,

to see only there.

Never aware of my present state

I write to eliviate this desperate

mind which confines me to drown

in thoughts that surround me

in beliefs that confound me

I cannot help but feel

I cannot help but write

despite

everything.

I fight.

To live, to see, a light at the end.

I strive to defend

this right I've been given.

With 26 letters,

to write out my dreams

In differing schemes.

I'll combine them all

to find the perfect story

to convey all the glory

bound up in this world

given by the one

who created the Word.

It may sound absurd,

but it's there.

It's here.

Like a beat in my chest.

I will try my best,

to convey

to say

to stay

away from the simplest of things.

To reach the world with my words.

To change a heart with a song,

a syllable can right wrongs.

Just give me a pen,

and leave me to be,

and I will write it all out,

a beautiful symphony.