Why do I write

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Why do I write? Is it to fill the hole that cannot be filled? Why do I write? Is it to pour my heart out when I am at my saddest? Why do I write? Is it to feel joy despite my hard-ship filled life?
Question. Do I write to question? You tell me. Does the writer sketch all night just to agree?  For the sake of being a clone? One would think not. The writer goes against the grain.
Why do I write?Why do you breathe?Why do we fight?Why do we deceive? It all seems so conspicuousexcept maybe the first.They’re all just in our nature,for better or for worse.
Why do I write?   I write because I’m a woman, And believe in freedom of speech.   I write because to do nothing would not be worthy. I write to make some mark of myself upon this earth.  
I am not some expert poet, someone who can dish out classics like Shakespeare dished out sonnets. I am not some wordy warrior who slays her inner demons with her pen sword and paper shield
Why should I tell you my life story? the horrors I've faced, the hell I've been through, the things I've overcome... When I know you wont listen.
Letting things get to you is absurd Because your brain you'll batter Then the ways wind up wild Having no where to go except sleep But...
I’m the quiet girl that you ignore, the one who gets her work done on time, and who is always kind. You see me, but you know nothing about me. You probably think I know nothing about you, but it’s quite the contrary.
Writhing on the tightrope of attempted conceit staying afloat on conventional parameters but in truth, submerged at all times in the ideals of a microcosm disguised as a universe until pen hits page occasionally
When I was a child My Grandpa read to me awhile I did not know Mother Goose, Nor did I know Doctor Seuss. But I did know Evangeline and Anabel Lee. Always, they were friends to me.
I write because I want to leave a part of myself behind when I go. I want people to remember that I was capable of beautiful things, even though sometimes I was capable of ugly things too.
One lonely ink drop, in the midst of chaos. The words are moving. They’re dancing like sunbeams chasing each other’s tails. They’re jumping and laughing they’ve got secrets to tell.
I heard a story, once, About a woman convinced that bugs Crawled beneath her scalp She scratched and scratched And scratched because she had to get them out
I write for those who have no voice The boys and girls with lips sown shut by expectations,
Enigmas pulsing through my mind, Wordless and trapped. Emotions flicker through my psyche, Unremitting and unforgiving. How can I release all I'm feeling In a deluge that refuses To be formed with words?
I write selfishly, for purposes unknown I write devilishly to let out all my steam I write to keep me a better me I write when I am angry I write when I am sad I write whenever I can I write when I am mad
Why do I write poetry? Its a stupid question if you ask me. I write for the people I love, for the people I hate, for the people who will listen, for the people who wont listen, for my dog, for my family, for the father I wish I had.
Writing is strange Writings can change Some write to tell Some write to sell Friends write to friends Families write to family What do I write for?!? I write to be happy
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