I have never asked, why I write
so... Why do I write?To grab words almost as if they are the breaths I take
To write worlds into existence in blinks of the eye
Why do I feel compelled to do so?
Is it that these words claw on my skin, my neck, and my back?
Or all the nights I lost sleep over them?
Do I feel vindictive, spilling these words over ink, perhaps against their will?
Have I held them hostages, that that they may seek freedom in paper?
Are they prisoners of their own design?
What is a gift, unused?
Is it wasted, or being selfish?
Or are we allowed to battle ourselves in attempts to understand
Maybe I still don't know, and maybe I'm not supposed to know, I simply need only continue to do.
