I write because the ink bleeds

 

Even when I don’t

 

They tell me to speak my mind

 

But childhood taught me that I am to be seen

 

And not heard

 

So I won’t be heard

 

But I will be read

 

Even if the words are jumbled

 

Fragmented

 

Pieced together

 

A bloody mess

 

I will be read, because no one else knows what I have to say

 

I write because it hurts

 

Even when I don’t

 

Because it’s magical

 

Even when I’m not

 

I write because the sickness of the mind is really sickness of the heart

 

And words can be a cure

 

Even if it’s little old me writing those words

 

I write because my ancestors were told that they couldn’t speak

 

So instead, they wrote

 

And wrote

 

And wrote

 

So I carry their souls in mine as I put pen to paper

 

And I do the unthinkable by daring to challenge

 

To create

 

To idealize

 

To idolize

 

To preach

 

To tell you what’s wrong with the world and how to fix

 

I write because the ink bleeds

 

Even when I don’t