I write because I have to
because people like you ought to hear my words,
because I am someone who wants to be heard.
I write because of the bees,
I write to save them from dying.
Like my fragile little ego he crushed.
I have to write to save myself
from the heartache and the pain.
The reason I crave for misery is my pen.
I write to choose the path I want to lead.
To navigate the map laid out in front of me.
To be able to live life with just words.
I write because words are my strength
The armor and the sword. The weapons
of war that I need every single day I wake.
I write to express happiness.
The joy of a baby’s cry,
and the sorrow of a mother’s birth.
I write for tomorrow and yesterday.
The truth behind everything I do.
I write for the things I can taste.
I write for everything and nothing at all
Lewis calls a raven a writing desk,
And like the Hatter, I haven’t got the faintest idea why.
I know not why I write,
I know not why I must excrete
these venomous words on paper.
Do you ask people a living person why it breathes?
Do you ask a color why it has that hue?
Or do you ask a your opponent for their strategy?
I write simply for myself, I guess.
I write simple because I am alive.
And I write because words are I have.
I was made to build stories.
It’s all I’ve ever known.
I write for anyone who reads, I guess.
I write for anyone who listens.
I write because people like you exist.
I write because people like you understand.
I write because of me, my life and all I’ve known.
I write because there are people somewhere,