Why Do I Write?
“Why do you write?” he said.
“You sit like a spectator to life.
You watch, while I dive into the places that scare you.”
Chewing on my pencil, I look up—
shadows cast across my face from him.
“Why do I write?” I ask.
“Let me show you.”
I grab his hand and gently pull him in
to a land where possibilities are endless,
where life doesn’t end—it transforms.
It lives in lyric and song.
My poetry nourishes me.
Like your confessional bread—
my Eucharist of hope,
my witness to all that is
and all that will ever be.
You see me sitting still,
but you don’t see the weight I carry—
the masks I wore, the hands I held,
the silence I swallowed to keep others whole.
I have lived so many lives
in rooms full of people who never saw me.
Now I sit alone, not because I’m hiding—
but because I’m finally choosing me.
I exist in many worlds,
as different people—
my ancestors, my descendants,
the little ones tumbling through.
They look for kindness.
Books and words made a haven for me—
protection from the storm
you couldn’t see.
I am connecting with something bigger.
Not out there in the noise—
but right here, in the quiet hum of creation.
And when my body fades,
my voice will remain.
These pages hold my breath,
these songs cradle my soul.
I will live in the lines—
in the ink, in the echoes,
proof that I was here.
That I loved. That I survived.
He takes my hand,
and steps into the pages with me.
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