You ask me why I write,

Why over blank paper my pencil takes flight.

Why words so fluid do flow,

And my feelings seem to show,

In words of power, words of grace,

Fast or slow, or of any pace.

I guess sometimes they really do mean,

Something to me of something I've seen.

And sometimes they are outlets of rage or sorrow,

That help me to find the better tomorrow.

And sometimes I find that my pen just goes

As if it understands, just like it knows.

Sometimes there's no rhyme or reason, no message or meaning.

Sometimes there's no lovers cutely keening.

Occasionally I write just because it sounds pretty,

Or because it shuts out the sounds of the city.

Sometimes I write because of inspiration,

Yet other times it comes from the purest elation.

Yet overall, I write for one reason.

Because I love it, in any season.

In any weather, in any mood,

Writing is the best kind of brain food.

So you ask why I write, and this is why, I do say.

I write because I love it, in every single way.