I write because the real world is too hard, the real world is too stressful.
When adulthood winds its dark thorn sharp claws
around my dark sense of wording.
Threatening to drag me down into a tumbling abyss
that is reality.
I write because I am not good at talking,
at getting what I'm thinking to come out my mouth.
Words that beg to be listened to are filtered out through
the invisible mesh that has been drilled into my head.
I write because I am told this is what I am good at,
despite I do not use big fancy words
to describe what I see,
what I have experienced.
To describe what I see,
what I feel.
I write because I do not force myself into writing in a MEAT formant.
To have evidence to back up my own emotions,
my own thoughts.
I write when no one else but the pen and paper understand me.
I write because I do not have to hide behind a mask,
uncover the shroud of lies
and not revise my own words.
I write because I do not censor myself,
it is the only thing where I do not stop the
feelings or thoughts from spilling over.
When I pour my soul into stanzas and paragraphs
is when the rush takes me.
Every period,
common,
indent is like another shot ecstasy.
The words flow from my veins to my brain,
my skin is made of thin paper with blood as the ink.
I write to say things I have no guts to in real life.
When a knife is held to my throat as society chokes my words
down like they are poison.
Curling their lips at my fits of what no writer dares to put to paper.
I write because I f**king want to.
I write to please the demons.
I write to write.