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.

 

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