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.