Why I write.

A question that blazes

At the heart of each Poet,

Each Writer, Storyteller,

Keeper of secret tales,

Story‐monger, Wordsmith,

Syllable shaper.

Lords of Dreams.

Perhaps it is that we like the feel,

The texture of words

Falling from our lips,

Leaking onto the page,

Staining a dreary world.

Perhaps we like the Power.

The Power to breathe Life,

Shape worlds, twist feelings.

The Power to Create.

In the beginning,

There was the word.

And then another, and another,

Crawling their way across the page.

Perhaps we like the Freedom.

The Freedom to finally speak,

Free from the bonds,

The Tethers of Society.

Or maybe,

Maybe we are just Madmen

Fidgeting with words.

Catharsis keeps us Sane.

Out of the Asylum.

Eccentric creatures of habit.

But what matters it

Why we write,

When our words define Nations

And shape Hearts.

When our words breathe meaning

Into mundane life.

What matters it why we live,

When there is a divine Glory in being Alive?