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-