Why I Write

It is not fame, glory, or political interest. Rather for who is why I write. For me.

It is an over flooded dam needed to extract anguish, sorrow, and happiness.

I was rejoiced with the fortune and luxuries of life; my parents love. My brothers love.

Happiness was air-unlimited. But as always the riches don’t last forever.

I was isolated by desire to be a part of his life and since, a part of me had died,

even though his body was there, his presence was absent.

Lies, forgiveness, tragedy, my childhood.

 

After so much, blades and black nail polish found my hands. There were many relatives

who intended to damage me, and unfortunately they didn’t believe me.

I was alone.

My room was my consolidation. School, my defense mechanism to keep my mind busy-entertained.

My friends were that northern star but when I reached that place something was still unclear.

So I cut a tree, built a notebook and pencils. For once I felt alive again, I was almost complete.

 

I heard her voice, her laugh ,I  saw her smile, my mother who held my hand through my voyage

and secured me in her arms,

then I was complete.

 

Sometimes it is school and writing assignments, research papers and creative writing.

Newspaper articles and journal entries.

But there is also personal writing and emotional thoughts.

Sometimes it is appreciation.

Other times it is anger, or just the thought of memories

and the desire to be a complete family again.

 

For me it is everything school, creativity, and personal writing.

I have yet to identify my attributes but for now I write for fun.

I write for the luxury of life and being sustained by a roof,

for having a job and being loved by a family. 

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