Like how the wind was meant to blow the tree leaves

And my lungs were meant to take in the air I breathe

Like how my eraser is meant for mistakes I write

And my siblings and I seemed to be born to fight

Like how pain is coupled with a child’s birth

And my broken leg was made to hurt

For the actions I cannot express through mere movement

For the thoughts that would have never made it out of my head

For the deep dark feelings I didn’t know was there

For the times I sat isolated in despair

I write because some sing

I write because some dance

I write because some act

I write because some cant

Like how we are all born with different gifts

And my gift was a gift of soft expression

Like how others use their gift for presidential speeches

And my gift only alleviates my own depression

Like how others write to remember history

And my writing to remember my story

For the nights the emotions became words and the pen my console

For the days I had no one but my paper and pen to talk to

For the beauty and simplicity in making writing your own

For the inevitable feeling of fullness when you’ve reached the bone

I write because it is simple

I write because it is fair

I write because this piece is special

I write because I know I cannot be Shakespeare

Like how the trees blow because of the wind

And I live for my lungs let me breathe

I write because I was made for it

And it was made for me

I’m uncovered to my reader

If my skin tone was light

I’d be beet red

I write to be undignified, exposed

I write because too much in life goes unsaid