Maybe I write because I like the feel of it.

The click of the keys

All the power of a God on a blank page

The uninhibited command held in my fingers and my mind

Except I fumble over the language I speak

Flickering between tongues for the right word

Until a have a jumbled creation on the page that makes sense only to me.


Maybe I write to express myself.

Putting my thoughts on paper

Letting something flow out of me that’s made of my dreams

Releasing emotions into ink.

Except what does that mean?

How could I possibly make a difference that wouldn’t fade?

The meager musings of a young girl up against the massive world would never stand.


I write because I don’t know who I am.

All my life friends, family, school, and religion has tried to tell me.

I’ve just been confused by their endless efforts.

But then I found poems.

In the scattered scratch of thoughts, I can pour myself onto a page,

Read it back, and learn more of who I am.

To you it may be cryptic and confusing,

But to me, it’s clarity. 


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