Why I write? A question so simple and small.
How else could each moment become history?
Yesterday's memories to the wayside would fall.
I could not keep to myself in silent reverie,
With such wonderous words to describe every sight.
Revived anew from each fading memory.
Inside my mind as I lay still in the darkness of night,
The words tumble around, bursting to be set in ink.
Escaping for others to ask of themselves, "Why I write?"