Post by StoriesThatNeverWere on Mar 25, 2007 20:22:16 GMT -5
We all release ourselves into a trance
With painters their canvases
With musicians their songs
With lawyers their lies
But a writer… easily some can get caught
In the emotion of the words
But why is it we surrender to scribble
Paper that is born blank and dies marked
Why is it I write
I certainly posses no extraordinary talent
Which is what I always lived by
There is no sense in working hard
If you are poor at the subject
So why do I write
When my words are nothing
Outside the door I hear the chatter
Of a party I consciously avoid
I do not drink with them
Laugh with them
Share with them
No, I type these words
The words of no talent
So why do I write
My bedroom is bare
With no color or life
Old trophies of golden years
And the books I cling to
Are the only sign of existence
Otherwise, would I be here
Why do I write, when I have nothing to say
Shakespeare
Poe
Dickinson
Me
Why do I write
Because if I didn’t
These pages would be blank
My joys completely false
My hands without blood
My soul without its mate
I write to free myself of what lies just out there
