Why I Write

The pages held the truth
I could not hold
Moments too painful
To remember and do
Those things I believed
Were mine to do
The words buried
On the page were hidden
By the writer knowing
The day would come
I would need to read
The why that crushed
Belief in the woman I was

I write to remember.

The young woman raged
Against herself
If only the hopes and dreams
Would fade if only
She would stop longing
To do the things
That had always been a part
Of who she was
If only she could be
What she was expected to be
She had to live for her children
The box of youthful writings
Fell victim to her longing to die

I write to be.

Unable to place the mask
Tightly enough on my face
The truth leaked out
In moments of vulnerable
Sharing from others
Struggling to live
With the pain of unacceptance
Of not measuring up to
The expectations of others
Stories shared would
Gather in my brain
Others needing to be heard
But having lost their speech

I write to be speak.

Words spilled like blood
Upon the page
Resonate with others
Letters secret memories
Shared behind the scenes
Confirm I am not alone
The story I write is shared
By some still too fearful
To speak I write
Knowing that many will
Condemn my words
But knowing that others
Would find in them relief

I write to stand beside.

Tears flowing down my face
In the silence of my room
My heart grieves the child
The woman I was
And all I don’t yet
Know how to be
I release my hands to dance
With child’s abandon
On the keys in joyful banter
Words played against words
Rollicking from the soul
That still needs joy
Even as I face the sorrow

I write to laugh.

The hunger to touch others
Rumbles in me
I see the world in pictures
That form in patterns
Upon the page
Beauty feeding my soul
In images of delight
And wonder too great
To hold inside
My words rush out in rivers
Of knowing the depth
Of the spirit within me
And the love I have for the world

I write to live.

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6 thoughts on “Why I Write

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