Why I write

Why I write

My words, my life, my memories.

Sometimes shared, but these are mine... Alone?

I forget that others were present,

That they saw what I saw, felt what I felt,

sometimes deeper, sometimes different.

I bottled it up, years, decades of silence.

I thought I was strong, hiding the pain.

Others would laugh, they'd mock, tease.

I didn't have to share, to shout, to proclaim,

but I could get it out, with ink to paper.

Sometimes i will read them again,

reflections on my own ancient history.

Tales of stupidity and love, and stupid love.

Sometimes I ball it up and toss it into the flames

eaten by the destructive necessity, fueling the heat.

It came out, not in my voice, but from my hands.

She may understand, in her language or mine.

Even if not, there will be those who get it.

Some day, sometime, we may never meet with sight,

but that moment, that connection, it's why I write.