Why I Write

They ask me where I find

Such painful rhymes.

 

I tell them they are born

On the nights when

I am walking home

My soul barren

And I see a car

That looks like yours

And my heart

Bursts out of my core.

I rush to my door,

Terrified but thrilled;

This is the paranoia

You helped build.

It is on those nights

When I sense you

In the shower

Your embrace on my body

And I tremor

Trying to erase the memory.

It is when the first image I see

When I wake up alone on Sunday morning

Is the picture you got me

of the beach, and behind it a forewarning

of what was to come.

It was a quote

That you wrote:

About how we only live once

But if we do this right,

once would suffice.

But what is the point of living

With that idea in my mind

When all my surroundings

Are remnants you left behind?

 

They ask me why I write,

It’s hardĀ for me to explain.

Words are weapons,

They help me fight:

True strength only comes from pain.

 

 

 

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Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

The greatest struggles a writer must face

Are the placing of words in the correct place

Are providing the fuel to light the fire

Are creating immortal ideas that inspire.

Then comes the self-deprecating expedition

Where one knows not where to end nor begin

Where perfection is sought, but none exists

Where the desire for satisfaction persists.

Finally, the writer must divulge the revelation

That what they seek they can never achieve

That it is better to accept than to deceive

That self-fulfilment is merely an aspiration.

There are a multitude of ways to craft a sentence

An unlimited number of adjectives to utilize

An endless array of vocabulary and tense

An infinite amount of characters to disguise.

But the writer must awaken to the reality

That such thought processes lead to misery.

One must pick up the pen and begin to rhyme

And watch their destiny unfold in due time.

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