What I Do

I don't write because I can, 

Or because I think I'm good at it,

Or because I want applause.

I write because, next to my lungs,

Words are what keep me breathing,

And the link between my left hand

And the ink in my pen

Is too strong to ignore.

I don't write to cause a stir

Or start a scandal.

I don't write for pride.

I don't write for recognition.

I write to get it out,

Because only so much can come out of my mouth,

But the rivers of words I can put on paper

Are longer than the Nile

And the notebooks I have filled

Will be the fossils I leave

To show even after I'm gone

That I lived

And I breathed

And I had thoughts

And dreams

And I loved harder than I thought was allowed to by nature,

And I write to show kids like me

That they aren't freaks

For loving language and for writing what makes sense to them

Even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else.

And most of all,

I write for myself.

I write the words I cannot speak,

With the hope that the link between my hand and my pen

Will be strong enough to grow to my mouth

And somehow, someday,

All these glistening, freezing words

Might come out of their hiding place inside my brain

And be warmed by the sun.

I don't write because I can.

I write because it's what I do.