This Girl

I write to feel. I write because at the end of the day, there is nothing more that I want. I write for those that I have lost. For people I have known and never known. I write because its like the drug to the addict. Its my heroine, coke, alcohol. Pure adrenaline. I feel it, its the keys that pound or ink penned out on paper. It’s the shot in the arm. I write for myself. To leak out every ounce of hurt, despair, pain. I write for joy. Giggle as it moves past. I write to bring back reality; a seemingly solid rock to stand upon. I write because I can. Because when I have nothing and nobody, the paper and pen keep me sane in the solitude of the darkened night. A lit lamp; it lights the path. The forever tale that I can tell. I write to be. I write for them. I write out the line that traces my mind. I write the words so vivid and real that dance within my dreams, deep in my psyche. The tale that becomes reality as its pieced together with every word, sentence, paragraph. I write for the memories I never had. I write for the memories. I write, even when I am not writing. My mind moves in a writing manner, even when I have nothing to write upon. I write to tell my story. I write to tell his or her story. I write through the tears, they travel down my cheeks, resting where my lips meet. I write that which I cannot vocalize. I write love. I write emotions. The pounding fist, the aching heart, the screaming mind, silenced by the writers cry. I write for the past. The present. The future. I write for hope. I write out of fear. Fear that tomorrow will come and the feelings still remain. That without it penned out, it will never go away. I write for the day. I write for the night. I write to tell somebody; anybody. The words that travel from heart to head, hand to paper, are the words of my soul. I write for the journey. I write to heal. Love stories. Horror stories. I write the love I had. Upon the blank paper is a story of truth and lies. I lie. I write because to me it’s everything and nothing at all. I write the words just to see them splayed out upon the white. Their dark shadows cast a flaw upon the flawless white. A fear and perfect understanding that we are flawed. I write to reveal the imperfections. Beautiful imperfections. Tonight. I write the seasons. Seasons of life. The journeys and the paths. A fork in the road. I stand upon an abyss, I write what exists within the darkness. I write wonders. I write questions. I write answers. I write to feel and to process. The thoughts and feelings, displayed for my own eyes to read, become the evidence of my healing and acceptance. I write to make you think. To make you feel. I write every story, poem, and simple prose; my autobiography. I write the things that seem so real within my mind. I write because I am a writer. Because without it, I may never feel anything but want.