I was once asked why I write
Why I waste my time doing
And I answer I don’t know,
Just a dream, a reason to be,
I read those many books, watch
Those movies, those TV shows.
Each actor a new life.Wish filled
dreams, hopes, arguments, and pain.
A life of solitude, the deepest of graves.
A want for someone to hold, to care for,
To see grow, to shrivel, struggle, and to be happy.
To be what I’m not, doing what I wish I could.
A heated kiss, forbidden love, lust, to be what I’m not.
Here I struggle to live,
Each day the same as the next, one boring
routine after the next. No sleep, some sleep, work,
class,up the hill and down the hill.
A lost family, fair weather friends, a trustless mother,
A reflection, a mirror, that’s all I am, a ghost
in the pale eyes of those who read what I write.
The withered, the Intellectuals, the
Callous, the scarce, and where do I fit?
The witless, the tired, the meek? Cliché,
the bolded word that leads one’s stride, to put
forth their pain their sorrow, their deepest fears,
and most angry of thoughts, a tasteless laugh, the
mockery the joke, yet the pain is real, the hunger is real.
To live where no one else can, the hunger to do that
Which our minds eye plays through night after night, day after day,
hoping that it would be real for once, that when I wake
up it won’t be just a dream, a dream’s dream.
As a writer, a Righter? I live in my dreams, not here,
not this. As a writer, I can fly with the larks, camp with an old eccentric women, play music on stage as a rock and roll singer, guitarist,
drummer. I can do crack in a back alley, while
banging a hooker, go dancing at a royal ball. Use
a wand and conjure the most dreadful of things, go to
jail, kiss that one person you never thought you’d
meet, (Red hair, blue eyes, wonderful British Irish accent).
So why do I write, I write to do all those things that I fear,
May even know I’ll never do. I write to fill the emptiness
that has been there for far too long, since I could remember.
To fill those times when I’m forgotten, or alone, bored,
or scared, frustrated, or awake with out sleep, when I can’t sleep.
I write because my brain never seems to stop wandering, imagining one thing or the next.
I write because my chest hurts
if I don’t, like it hurts when you’ve lost someone you love, or long for someone
you know you’ll never have. Why am a writer, I am a
writer because I don’t think I could live if I weren’t. I don’t think
I could be what I am now without writing, I wouldn’t exist.
I read those books, and wonder if I’ll ever write like them,
those wonderful authors, those writers. I watch those movies
and ever wonder if I’ll ever meet a girl like that, or a guy.
I follow those stories wondering what will happen next,
can I be what’s next? In the end I know I’ll never be a
wizard, or a knight, ninja or superhero. I doubt I’ll ever meet
that right person, who can make me laugh and make me cry,
feel happy, and lonely all at the same time. I know deep down
that I’m just another face in the crowd. But I want to hope,
I need to hope and I write because it is my hope,
it is my release, my wants, my needs, its everything.
This was to stop the criticism I recieved from my Grandmother about why I write. For so long she would yell at me to change how I am and how I want to be a writer.