Why I Write

I once read all that glitters is not gold and by no means is this an exception words flow naturally in the light of the moon fed with gaping mouths grasping on to the snow banks as you hold tight to your convictions to write is to breathe and I am constantly writing my mind is filled to the brim with metaphors washing me in the ocean of my thoughts I find the best way to sort out my truths is to put them on paper whether calm and collected or broken and full of hazards the rage in my mind won't let me be my friend once imagined words were written in our bones perhaps more so on mine I cannot escape the terrible and awesome power that connects me to a story wrapped in leather I write about places and I write about thoughts I write about people in lands long forgot I write to make this body mine this writhing skin of words these bones of hardened dust I write to tie the loose ends choking, poisoning my mind I write to free to hold to entrap to release what is mine to become theirs and yours and ours I write because after my muscles grow taught and my jaw stretched from screaming when there is no more but this empty, hollow feeling I become one with the craving that sweetly sick taste to match what was taken with something I create I write poetry in the shower half asleep and dreaming waiting for a voice long since dead praying to god I don't end up the same I write because there is no other way I write because no one will have the same thoughts the same ideas that become plain as day I write because I cannot scream into the void that holds my being I write because I am trapped within this body this worthless thing made of stars I write because speech is worthless catching and tripping on my teeth I write to be calm and I write to explain I write to become whole and I write to escape the pain I write because I hate the sound of my own voice