Why do I choose to speak my mind through the written word?

 

Well,

You could just as easily ask

Why do you breathe?

 

I write because my pain,

My humor,

My anger,

And my rapture

All need an outlet.

 

Because words cannot describe just how deeply I care for him

But they can try.

And when my hand is not in his,

My fingers become restless

And with a pen, they take flight to satisfy their hunger.

 

Because this planet is so.

Fucking.

Beautiful.

And well deserving of its own sonnets,

That I feel the need to document its perfection

And its imperfections alike.

 

Because writing made me feel whole again with a simple trade:

Razor for pen

My flesh for paper

And starvation for the simple pleasure in expressing ME.

 

Because nothing is more frustrating, more enthralling, or more liberating

Than that first connection between thought, pen, and paper.

 

Because from the moment I discovered writing,

I discovered myself.

 

I write because down to my marrow,

Through and through,

I am a writer.