They asked me why I always write,
I replied with a simple shrug,
But when they asked me to stop,
It felt as if my heart had been tugged,
It was as if someone had asked me to stop living,
It was as if someone asked me to stop breathing,
For I have no doubt that they think this constant writing is unhealthy,
But inside I am internally screaming,
For my poems are not happy,
And my stories are quite sad,
But I don’t get why everyone is confused,
Or why they think that this constant writing is bad,
If they would really read,
If they could read between the lines,
If they could breathe ink and graphite as I do,
I would no longer have to give relentless signs,
I am trapped inside a mind of words,
A mind that twisted words as an author’s mind should,
And sure I would stop writing,
But only if I could,