I write because nothing listens to me like a blank, white page.
I write because nothing says what I have always need to say
Like each curvature and smooth line of a candid black pen.
And like an addict, I come back to it as an old friend.
I write because life is complicated, and you have no choice but to bear it.
But you can make your words as simple or complex as you need others to hear it,
To express what resides
In the corners of your mind.
I write because I cannot breathe.
The world is suffocating.
Lies, cheats, stereotypes, unfaithfulness, bigotry
We all know the rest of this perverse melody.
How are we supposed to breathe in the toxicity of our world
Without exhaling through ink on paper?
How are we supposed to cope with our strife
And all the impossibilities of everyday life
Without staining our black ink tears into the page
And holding it up for all to see?
I was here. I was in this. Look at me.
Feel the pain I feel so I know that it’s real.
It happens and then before you can blink
It’s already happened; it’s over and done
And you smile at all your old poems
Knowing you have won.
I write because I survived.
I survived because I write.