Why do I write?

Why do I write?

I cannot say I know for sure.

The question, like a difficult math equation, has an answer that I know, but won't come to mind.  It feels stuck, the answer flashing through my brain, teasing me.  It comes quickly enough to know it exists, but leaves so fleetingly I cannot put my finger on it.

Frustration fills me, I know why I write but cannot say it.

Then it comes to me.

I write because, when questions, problems and indescribable feelings--not unlike this one-- arise, my poems say what I cannot.  My words paint the pictures that my clumsy hands never could.  They express the emotions that I won't share out loud.  Writing releases my stress like the warm downpour that comes after a boom of thunder releases water from the clouds.  

Writing allows me to truly be myself in a way that would never manifest itself in most other situations.  Writing frees me and lets me find who I truly am.  

That is why I write.