I don't write because I can,
Or because I think I'm good at it,
Or because I want applause.
I write because, next to my lungs,
Words are what keep me breathing,
And the link between my left hand
And the ink in my pen
Is too strong to ignore.
I don't write to cause a stir
Or start a scandal.
I don't write for pride.
I don't write for recognition.
I write to get it out,
Because only so much can come out of my mouth,
But the rivers of words I can put on paper
Are longer than the Nile
And the notebooks I have filled
Will be the fossils I leave
To show even after I'm gone
That I lived
And I breathed
And I had thoughts
And I loved harder than I thought was allowed to by nature,
And I write to show kids like me
That they aren't freaks
For loving language and for writing what makes sense to them
Even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else.
And most of all,
I write for myself.
I write the words I cannot speak,
With the hope that the link between my hand and my pen
Will be strong enough to grow to my mouth
And somehow, someday,
All these glistening, freezing words
Might come out of their hiding place inside my brain
And be warmed by the sun.
I don't write because I can.
I write because it's what I do.