There is a reason.
There has to be a reason as to why poetry exist.
As to why poetry can wrap around like a blanket.
As to why poetry can unchain my frozen heart.
There is a REASON FOR EVERYTHING.
I have learned it.
We are told music can release the tension we hold inside.
Poetry has done the same to me.
It has the unspoken, unwritten melody.
The reason I write.
Is unknown to those around me.
The misunderstandings of my unspoken melody.
Encourages me to keep writing.
My heart begs for the paper and pen.
My blood thins when I resist.
Every time I meet the eyes of my blind mother.
Once so dark and brown,
Now just blue and straining to see my face.
I feel her pain,
Her frustration.
She used to love to hold the paper and pen.
She used to love to create magic.
Now all she can do is wait for a miracle.
I have the need to help.
I have the need to protect.
I have the need to write.
Paper, whether blank or with lines.
Pen, whether black or blue.
Pencil, whether new or used.
I will write.
For her.
Because what she cannot release.
Because what she cannot let go.
Because what she cannot hope for.
Because what she can no longer see.
I will write for her.
I will write the scenery of the beach.
I will write the future.
I will write the past.
I will write the present.
Because she will hear me one day.
Because one day if permitted by doctors.
She will read it.
She will remember the scenery of the blue ocean.
She will remember the sound of the wind.
She will remember the feel of the sand.
Because I wrote it all down for her to read it one day.
She is the reason as to why I write.
In such a poetic way.