Why I Write Scholarship

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Poetry is cruel Just as all words are But they say the best are written by fools Smearing the truth, concealed by blue jewels   It is a chance for the barren to have a strong son
Pen to paper That is all people see Because why I write Is unique to me Emotions are running But my mouth fails to speak So my hand starts moving To explain what I seek
 Have you ever had that moment? You know, where nothing seems to go your way. Life throws twist and turns It's a bumpy road It can be fun though You just have to learn how to enjoy the ride
I write to fill the unspoken silence, the unencumbered void in which I live. Books scream to be heard, neglected by most. I listened to their cries and divulged in their secrets.
  Once upon a time, Not too long ago, There lived a happy little girl, Without a care in the world. She was sweet but shy,
Bleeding Pen My pen bleeds with passion passion of ones heart it bleeds my pain and  my happiness drips tears of sadness my mind speaks through my hand I may fade like writing in the sand
Words fly from your mind onto the page. There is no stopping when you have set your mind ablaze. Pencils are made for writing, but what really counts, is whats on that page.
Between two covers bleed songs of catharsis a soul, in words, revealed.   Words like photos of the pen's dance on paper a poet's written ballet.   Ink sprawled across pages
The written word carries significance Some use it to instruct and say “Knowledge is power” (Bacon) Others, they write down history Convey myths passed through the ages Homer, my friend, I’m looking at you
At the age of 18, most kids got their first tattoo. I went to my first open mic. And I was so scared to push my tongue and go, I didn't want to know I still wrote with training wheels.
The moment my #2 touched that loose leaf Hell froze over I open the floodgates of emotions and I released so that I could breathe again I write because I feel the pain of yesterday I know the troubles of tomorrow 
Pencil marks bleed through the paper and litter the kitchen table;Long lines of illustration and the brisk patterns of written language.Rudimentary chronicles leave their legacy on that old
Why I write A question only few can answer I write to be free I write to express I write to unleash Not just words on a paper But a story to be told Why I write Simply because I'm me
It's my mental muse, Therapy for the body, Rhythmic healing.
It’s that sweet melody of poetry that keeps me from committing a felony Felony It feels like hells on me That melody I let take over my body
They lay the books in front of us, Tell us to open the books to a certain page and then ask us to read. I love books, i find them a gift even at this young age.
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