Why I Write

I write because sometimes I forget how to speak.

The words never come out right.

Fragments of thoughts, sentences jumbled-

there’s a disconnect between my brain and my lips.

They never seem to cooperate.

I write because words are healing.

When panic and worry crawl up my throat

I weave them into my poetry.

My weapons of choice- pencil and paper-

banish them from my thoughts.

I write because poets know secrets.

They notice things that others only see.

They exist in a different world all together.

And I swear, I can hear the Om of the universe

in between pencil scratches in old notebooks.

I write because words are really all a person has:

a collection of sentences, stories scribbled in the margins,

memories spoken and written and remembered.

I write because I am still seeking out my true self

that must be hidden somewhere between the pages.