Writing

Why do I write The things I do? Pick up a pen And paper too, Put down my thoughts Flitting like birds Across my brain, It seems absurd To want to write – To let it all out, To watch my work Leave me in doubt As to whether I could Have written it all, These strings of words In the dirty scrawl Saying things I never knew I thought, Painting a picture In ink and blot. Telling a story, Recounting a tale, Laughter and tears So strong, so frail. Everything done, Yet I don’t know Why I write, Let my feelings flow. It is not for wealth, For then I would sell For as much as I could These stories I tell. But then, I think, Its surely not fame: I am content if No one knows my name. Is it what some Awful people call “Aesthetic exercise”? Oh no, not at all… I’m not trying to help Woman, child or man, And I’m not writing Just because I can. But I think I can cast Some much needed light- I think the answer is That I love to write. To feel my thoughts Forming a line, Interpreting emotions So hard to define, Gives me assurance That I can narrate, Invent and concoct, Compose and create, A story that gives Me an identity, That story is special For it defines me.