Why Do You Breathe?

People ask, why? Why do
You write? How can I
Convey a universe in my
Mind into simple sentences?
There is never an empty

Canvas in the sacred space
Of my soul, some people were
Born to be hero’s and save lives,
I was birthed to save my own with
Words and that may seem selfish

But literature is glad to see me, even
When I’m not, and I count blessings
On index’s and love in chapters and
The smell of freshly printed ink is my
Home, there is a library of characters,

Millions of friends waiting in the pages
I am gifted with never being alone, here
Are the connections in the dead of the
Night, while the world sleeps they are
Very much alive and battling demons of

Their own, they are relatable, they have
Tales and tell and I was always a good
Listener, and they open doors into plains
I would never travel in my own stead,
They’re in my head whispering advice

For the tougher times and a single quote
Can last a lifetime, making light out of
The darkest of times, and reminds me
Sometimes I am the creator of my own
Demise, words are music to my ears and

When I don’t hear what you are saying
I am imagining the sounds and when
You complain I’m anti-social you can’t
See I am surrounded by millions upon
Millions of forms, they don’t deserve to

Be ignored simply because what is real
To you is physical, and proofed, what
Is real to me is imagination, that’s the
Truth, so ask me now, why, why am I
A writer


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