Why I write

They say the eyes are a window to the soul. The painter’s creation is a reflection of the heart. Well my words are the expressions of my mind. When my nights would be so cold and my temper so hot. The words from my mind to paper never stopped. A bullet in my gun My finger on the trigger. These are the words of my heart released from my measly fingers. I could never rap a rhyme and an instrument was a hassle. I practiced my talent of putting pen to paper. Could it be so hard and would I be heard? Does even matter if someone remembers my words? If I could impact a life Or even inspire a soul. Would these things matter once I’ve grown old. At the end of the day I write for myself. Not for the thrill of trying to put books on a shelf. No merit needed or an award to show my skills. I do this to ease my mind and deal with daily life. I write for myself because it feels so right.