Why I Write

In between the mingled breaths and the quiet pitter patter of rain,

When the night swallows the moon whole and the in-between collage of colors before day breaks the night,

I sit and I write.

I write to drown the entire world,

In the blackest ink, swift and never ending, like the night.

My words are the scattered stars of my being,

I sprinkle and give them up to the sky,

Because I know they shall not be heard, or loved, or cherished, here on the Earth.

I write because of this desperate sense of wrong,

In which my heart stutters and gasps- and I can feel it shutter and breaking,

Re-forming like a monster- because it yearns to be heard, to stretch and be filled.

And my bones feel anxious, and my nerves are tingling, like the moment before lightning strikes,

And my soul is drifting, deep in a reflected lake,

And I need to find it, so my words lay claim to the essence of my being.

I cry in ink and I feed on words,

I am hungry,

 Hungry and passionate,

And therefore I write.

To look into the mirror and understand the girl who stands before me,

To see the reflected truth,

That is why I write.

I am in love with an elusive girl,

Who flits back and forth endlessly

And she is a candle lighting the darkest night,

She is swift and everlasting like the night,

She burns like fireworks and is as insubstantial as smoke,

She smells like rain yet tastes of the woody mysteriousness that occupies the night,

She retreats and leaves, an ocean receding only to swallow everything in its path,

And I can never catch her,

But I look in a lake and see she wants to be free,

And so I write to free the girl that is me.

I write not to change the world but to make a shift in the sand,

A tiny moment, a little gasp, a quiet hush,

Is how all greatness begins.

And for my words, I want nothing else.

I write to be remembered.

To believe my words are as essential to this Earth as this world is to me.

I want my words to be outlined like constellations in the sky,

I want my words to be spoken


Squeezed in between palms,

To be sung, in a sweet melody, in all the familiar places of the human heart

Shouted in anger, in passion, in grief, and bittersweet agony.

I write to free myself and to free others.

Surely we are not the only ones,

Who feel the sickness in our hearts and the passion in our lungs?

Who feel the need to bang on every door, question every breath,

To rally and storm, breaking down every obstacle, dissolving truths with our unrelenting curiosity- a storm.

Surely I cannot be the only one,

Who loves the deep, twisted secrets of the night yet so yearns to break free and be put in the light?

Surely, I am not the only one who writes,

In the vain hope,

That someone will pass by, and maybe, just maybe they’ll understand my words-the very inhales and exhales of my being- and it will be a clear June day,

In which the blue is the purest, cleanest sight, and the birds are singing the sweetest tunes,

And there will be a breeze, or a strain of laughter from a window,

And they will think of me and my words,

And fall in love

And carry me within them

Me and my words,


That is why I write,

To find a home,

In the hope I’ll be carried there forever,

Me, my words, my soul.


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