Why I Write

Ask Van Gogh why he painted; A lunatic left at his own devices His grey mind sucking colors from the world into a canvas. Each brush leading to liberation from the known world The thick paste transforming a canvas; Into a tapestry vibrating with colors and life. With precision and trembling hands, Drawing emotions into shapes. Stitching tears into beautiful mosaic. Squeezing love from each strand of the brush bristles. Sighing with a smile with completion of each piece, But for an artist, completion never comes. Lastly succumbing to a death of his own creation, A silver bullet aimed at his heart I write because like Van Gogh; I cannot stop I write because I want to live I write because when I stop I will be dead I write because I am a lunatic I write because it decrypts the sounds in my head I write because God created me to do so. I write for lovers, as they cuddle under the orange sun I write for enemies, as they search for each other’s soul I write for the morning sun, a gift from the creator I write for the night, a blackboard for dreamers I write for the young, the seeds of future them posses I write for the old, the fruits of the future they behold, I will write even if all I get is Facebook likes, I will write even after my words have been recorded into books, I will write even if I am the only one reading them I will write even if the pen pierce my heart; the blood as my last piece of art. I write because not even death can stop me.