I write because it’s my only voice.
My way to not be the quiet kid, sitting alone, longing to speak.
I write to shout, and scream my opinion in loose-leaf scribblings,
Raising riots in graphite uproars.
I write to be a voice for the voiceless, and a breath when I’m breathless.

I write to talk to the girl beside me, since lips quiver, and insecurity overtakes,
And the thought that my sweet nothings could hit home in her heartstrings
Is only more fuel for the literary bonfire.
I write to break barriers of conscious pretending.
I write because it’s unending.
Because it’s the only infinite,
And all pits have bottoms,
And all voids have edges,
But words worry little of such things.

I write to swim, and sink, and submerge, and drown.
To engulf myself in inferno’s, and waste away days in imagined forests.
To explore celestial cosmos’ and emotional oceans.
To be at peace with my mind’s Nature.

I write to stop breathing.
To rush blood to my head and feel euphoria’s left wanting.
To still shakes in shattered nerves, never at ease.
To please urges and mimic kingdoms.
To understand, just once, what it feels like to feel.

I write knowing it will never be perfect.
I write knowing I’m not perfect,
Wishing in desperation my words will somehow change
And take away all the loathing and hatred for myself,
Regardless of the voice pounding in my brain, chanting
“You can’t.”
I write because I can.

I write to turn teardrops to roses.
To morph scars to smiles.
To take away pain and replace with pleasure.
To fill holes in hearts and divides in the mind.
I write in the everlasting hope that somehow, some way,
It will make a difference,
If only in just one set of eyes.

I write because children are born and worlds are made when pen hits paper.
Because the story is never the same,
And galaxies are spawned from creative depths.
I write because of how savory a metaphor can taste,
Or how softly a subtle rhyme can caress heartstrings and tap synapses.
I write to synthesize and create,
Concocting new prose poultices at my alliterated alchemy station.

I write because people think big words sound smart.
Because eloquence impresses in the absence of knowledge,
And silver tongues can tether golden hearts and lock platinum bonds.
I write to drop bombs, and rebuild from Hiroshima craters,
And where the fallout ashens of radioactive ideas rain and settle,
New mutations birthed from the nuclear boom of thought will find their way to the page.

I write to dust off mental fossils, long since forgotten.
I write to dig shallow graves, and bury myself alive.
I write to incarcerate my fears and set aside my worries.
To become lost in valleys of thought and intrigue.
I write without knowing what to write,
And simply let my mind spill,
Spattering the page in drenched dreams my lips fear to say.

I write to reassure.
To see that even beauty can be birthed in something so broken.
To stare reflections dead in aching eyes, and paint smiles over frowns.
To not feel so down, and ascend on stenciled wings I’ve written in for myself.

But above all?

I write because if I don’t,
My veins ice over,
And my heart won’t beat.
My lungs will drain of air,
And my skin will drip away.
Without my words,
I become nothing,
And using them is my only way to survive.
So why do I write?
Because it’s my only way
To feel alive.