Why I Write

It's chaotic.

Everything is a blur. I can't think, just do. Do what you have to. Do what they tell you.

If life were a rollercoaster, I'd be pinned to the wall, along for the ride.

I feel myself on a downward spiral. Like I'm climbing stairs, feeling the effort of it,

and simply not moving. Not up nor down.

I pick up my pen.

Before, writing had been an assignment, sure I didn't mind, but now I felt a new wind.

All the pain, the tears, the sadness, the madness, the ambivalence, the everything had

to get out. So I wrote. Nothing specific just words. They formed themselves into

things. IMPORTANT. They gave me power, control, and a source of release.

Why I continue?

Poetry is a world all it's own. A production with the most diverse cast of characters.

See, all the labels "they" give you can be stripped away. None of that matters.

Anyone can play in this game and you receive respect. What you contribute

matters. Someone needs to hear what you have to say. It's selfish philanthropy!

See, In this world, I'm not a race, a shape, a state of mind, or any comparison.

In this world, I can truly be me, whatever me that that may be, which is why in this

world, I can truly be happy.