Why I Write
I have never publicized my writing.
When people ask what I like to do, I say simply, “I write.”
When people ask to read my words, I reply, “No, thank you.”
When people ask why, I tell them, “It’s personal.”
And it is.
My words bare my soul to the world,
and regardless of whether people understand the
gravity of the stanzas I pen,
I know.
I can’t tell them that the letters are painstakingly placed on paper
in a specific order
in a specific place
each one scratched into existence by a pen held by shaking fingers.
I can’t explain how the metaphors that I choose
mean so much more
than a simple comparison,
that they mean the world to me and are picked with care.
I do not write for others.
I write to leech away the ink that
drags through my veins
pumps through my heart
drips from bloody knuckles
and chapped lips
like the blood of a warrior
like the ichor of the gods.
I write to stop the voice in my head that screams,
Go, now, get out while you can,
paint the streets gold
and let loose your battle cry
and never look back, don’t you dare.
I write to ensure I don’t blow away,
like a tumbleweed,
rootless in the wind.
I can’t explain this to people.
I can’t tell them any of this and expect them to understand,
but I can write it better than I could ever say it.