why do
i write?
If someone were to ask me: “Why do you write?” I might respond with a question of my own.
“Why do you breathe?”
Said person would most definitely be offended if I were misinterpreted, if I were not careful with my tone. But my purpose would eventually cause them to think, what a strange thing to ask someone. Because it’s not a question as to why. It’s more a matter of you have to breathe. If you didn’t, you would die. So you breathe, at all times, likely without even thinking or being aware of doing so. That’s why I write. Because I have to. Because- at the risk of sounding completely overdramatic- if I didn’t I might die.
the final project: a glimpse
~To be hopelessly passionate~
​
What is it to offer up your soul?
For a price, it’s costly
You pour seconds into crafting perfection
And with each passing tick of the clock,
A piece of you: gone.
Like Mom selling your toys in the yard without permission
I’ve sold my soul, and gotten nothing in return
Pawning for perfection, I’m penniless
Out of soul,
Out of seconds