Hunter

“Why do you write?” You ask why? Why do I write? I could tell you why others write. They write to explain, to show. They write for others who have no words. They write for joy, for pleasure. They write for pain, they write for anger. Others write to illustrate the rising day, The falling, darkening night. They write about the songs, Music lovers, whether human or not, compose. They write to express the life of nature, The cold, unforgiving depths of the ocean. Others write for others, For beauty, For emotion, They write for themselves. “But why? Why do you write?” I write about the seas, The rain that falls. About the empty chasm, That rests inside a soul. I write about the way, His brown eyes looked into mine About the way he decided To let me fall. I write about the days, Leading to the darkest nights. About the screams and the laughter, The saving laughter that escaped. I write about the past, The present, and the Fall. About the way things seem so right, But are always the cause Of what is, what happened, What led to misery. But why? Why do I write? I write for selfishness. I write for pleasure, of seeing the words I have composed Together on a page. I write for the joy of holding a warm printed sheet, Of running my fingers across what my heart feels, What my mind thinks. I write to hold a tangible, understandable version of myself. I write what I cannot say. What I cannot express. I write to show myself, to hold the tangible proof, of what I feel. I write to show the sharpness of the pain, I write to create a world where it hurts, But only because it has to. I write to prove to myself of who I am Of who they are Of who I thought he was, but who he truly is. I write the words that bleed onto the page Hoping, praying, crying Wishing They were only Just words.