Why?

If you asked me why I write...

My eyelids would lower halfway and

you'd hear me exhale softly,

the traces of a smirk playing on my lips.

I'd pause for a few, contemplative moments

and tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear.

You'd sit there, perhaps shifting in your seat,

(Only slightly uncomfortable)

waiting for some kind of response.

You'd survey the contours of my face, taking in each detail,

examine the wrinkles in my old green Woodstock '69 t-shirt, 

note that I'm wearing exactly four rings

(One is a little golden cat.)

scruffy denim shorts

and no shoes.

You'd watch as I crossed my legs, head tilting slightly to the side,

that little hint of a smirk still threatening to exist.

You'd hear my voice as I finally replied,

"Why do you breathe?"

You'd blink once or twice, taken aback,

lips parting only slightly as if you were about to speak

(But I won't let you.)

"Why does your heart beat?"

At your lack of response, the coy little smirk blossoms into a Cheshire Cat Grin--

"Because you're alive."

My eyes would light up at that last word.

Alive.

"See, my friend...."

I'd begin again, leaning forward in my chair:

"For some, what you're doing right now is enough. 

Breathing, heart beating. That's being alive. 

But for others, like me,

there's something about

A pencil on paper.

The music a keyboard makes.

Ink on skin.

Paint on walls, on faces, on canvas.

(WORDS pictures COLORS textures FEELING fluid MOTION beauty LIVING)

That medium for all the little things that crawl around inside your head.

Thoughts.

Emotions. 

Ideas.

Dreams.

You ask me why I write poetry….

I do it for the same reason you keep breathing.

To me,

It’s synonymous with being

Alive.”