Why write? They ask, unsure of why I do,
But as I pour my words onto the page,
I feel the darkness lift, the sadness too,
And for some moments I no longer age.
Each minute, taking hours on this day,
Has aged my skin, my hands, my heart, my brain.
The day is endless, I can’t see a way
To make it through a day like this. Again.
But then I write, and as I write I calm.
The words themselves mean far less than the act.
The act of writing steers me clear of harm,
And helps me focus forwards more, less back.
And so why write? I’ve asked myself the same.
Because, in writing, I can ease my pain.