When I was a child

I wrote as a child.

It seems like only yesterday

I wrote of the less important things.

Of things that didn't really matter:

Ponies and rainbows filled my skies.

Dreams of thinking I could fly.

 

I wrote then to expand my imagination.

I wrote about Johnny whom I was certain I'd marry.

I wrote in ainxiety when he stopped calling me.

I wrote then for my broken 12 year old heart.

I grew in stature and experience.

In boldness and confidence.

I wrote about the world and all the wrong I witnessed.

I believed I could make it better.

That my thoughts would be the coming together

of nations in harmony.

How silly of me.

I wrote when I lost, I wrote when I won;

When the clouds covered my sun.

I thought I wanted to change the world.

The world that was responsible for all my pain.

I suppose then I wrote to benefit me.

I got older and the problems got bigger.

Nothing really goes away.

I had no friends, wanted my life to end.

My suffering felt much too great.

Not long for this world, I grabbed a pen

and scrawled my last farewell.

And so in a mess of splotched ink I think,

it's safe to say that then I wrote of hell.

Of course I never could follow through,

and so once more I grew.

As an adult I've learned about life

far more than I cared

Rejections collect and make me bitter.

No one wants to read what you have to say.

That's what they tell me anyway.

I write now because I know.

This paper is my yard.

I'm at home with this pen in my hand.

I've written for many reasons before,

but never have I only had one.

The reason I write is complex and mysterious.

I suppose, though, if I had to say.

You know if there was, I don't know;

say, money at stake.

If I had to give an answer for the reason I write then such an answer would be plain.

I write because no matter what happens or where I am,

whether in pen or a stick in the sand,

words will always be there to deliver what I have to say.

I write because...well...no one can tell me what to do.

I write...because...I can.