Why do i write?
Can i even call it writing,
Or is it more like scribbles across scraps of paper?
I have been scribbling for years, Never letting anyone see.
Then something hit me, I was inspired,
Now the world sees all my scribbles.
The same as when I draw,
I pick up the pencil and with every word,
A piece of my heart, mind, and soul is set free for others to feel.
Conscious I am, Picking my words carefully,
Hoping not to spill too much.
What goes on in my mind comes out in these words,
But my mind is in chaos, and it’s hard to decipher.
My thoughts are divulged one after another
As I scribble across my papers, Ripping them out,
I start over until I am satisfied.
Ramble is all I do, so I shall stop with this,
As I may reveal something more personal
As to why I really do write.
-!nversed Poignancy!
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