Writing
It always brings a smile to my face
and satisfactory to my heart
when someone compliments
my writing.
Sometimes, as I sit at my desk
with pen and paper,
I'll read and reread the words
and phrases I used to fill the blank page,
until the letters become scattered and
I can no longer understand the meaning
to my writing.
I often wonder what others
may think of what I have to say.
I often think if what I say is appropriate.
I do not wish for people to pity me or
see the devil behind my eyes.
I used to always be afraid
of what others may think,
but then I realized the truth.
I write because I need to breathe
and I breathe because I need to write.
There are letters flowing up and down my veins.
I breathe words and phrases of simple concepts.
I write for myself because I refuse to die.
My heart may stop beating without a warning,
but the words I have left behind
will keep my soul alive, forever.