Why do I write?
Well, why do birds fly?
Upon the updraft I take wing with pen and paper,
Releasing the power within me, giving it to the world,
No longer am I in control, deciding I stand here;
Now my emotions are tangible, a physical thing to be judged,
They are loved, hated, ignored, but they are there,
Not a figment of my imagination,
Not a chick on the proverbial cliff,
They are each young fledglings,
Battered and bolstered by the winds’ critique,
But they soar on, through storm, through drought,      
Through sorrow, through bliss,
They rise above the emotions that once grounded them,
No longer a mere sensation, but a haughty, robust thing,
Looking down upon the clouds, perched high atop the stars.
My words are judged, yes, and labeled, as the birds are,
Pretty, not pretty, safe, dangerous,
They forge a connection from my heart to others,
Like an arc of chain lightning,
Why do I write?
Well, Why do I feel?
Why do I smile?  Why do I cry?
Words are the corporeal manifestations of emotions,
So the better question would be . . .
Why wouldn’t I write?