Why Do I Write

If only the feeling of true self-recognition could be put into meaning,

Into a splatter of exploding visuals,

Into a serenade beautiful sounds,

Into a parallel reality where I am one with my inner parasite,

Maybe then, I could begin to explain the reason

Why I write.

This parasite within…

And how exactly do I coexist

with this symbiotic parasite?

or is it a parasitic symbiote?

Or is there not a difference?

But…

When I write…  

Am I channeling it?

Or is it channeling I?

I do not know…

BUT I STILL WRITE.

When the omnipresent universe decides to falsify my reality,

Where do I turn?

As if hope-ridden tears aren’t enough to satisfy its lust for pain,

Where else can I go?

Because seemingly, placing a barbed barrier stability and I won’t suffice-

What do I do?

I write.

I do not know why…

BUT I STILL WRITE.

Perhaps,

These hands of mine hold the words that refuse to roll off my tongue.

Perhaps,

These hands of mine hold the bittersweet idealisms trapped deep within my heart.

Perhaps…

These hands of mine hold the link to myself and the world-