Writing to me is breathing, living, my words are lungs, and they give my brain oxygen. It is vitality and without it, I suppose I would suffocate, metaphorically speaking. Perhaps my propensity to writing comes as a result of being “The Quiet One”, I suppose a reason would be, I tend to refrain from letting much escape from my mouth, my mind holds in all of those unsaid words, and I need some way to get them out, therefore, I empty all of the contents inside my head onto paper, expelling my brain from those muted thoughts that tend to fuse together, creating something completely unbearable. I also write because it allows me to understand myself, I take my emotions and dissect them by writing them out, every detailed piece of that single emotion, such as, how it made me feel and why it made me feel that way, when I go back and re-read what I have written down, it assist me into understanding my brain, almost in the sense of diagnosing a sickness. I write because what I have wanted to say, however, was never expressed tends to build up inside me, it overflows and floods my mind, the unwieldy pressure causes me to burst, splattering my worries everywhere, ruining everything, though whether typed or put onto paper, those silenced words, (and if they happened to be said) only made sense in my head, finally have voices, they speak for something, they represent something whether pain or contentment they have a story, and they seem to make perfect sense when I put them in a form of a poem, I guess I speak the language of poetry, whatever that may be, I am proud to speak it because it seems to be the only way anything that comes out of my mouth is understood. I write because pain lives inside my body, as if it is its home. Pain is selfish and its existence must be acknowledged, it is demanding, and it craves for attention. Pain scratches at the lining of my stomach from the inside when I try and ignore it, yet it is always reminding me, always nagging, always. However, when I write, it distracts me, my mind drifts off to a whole other world, I am thinking about the way poetry makes me feel beauty, the way it makes me feel warm and beneficial, the way it makes me feel relieved, basically, it is my pain killer, my medicine, exterminating that nuisance that lives underneath my skin. I write because I live in my own world of art. Writing helps me express that art; it allows me to be as creative as I’d like, no rules, no limitations, no precise order. I only ever need my mind, and my thoughts. I can be as absurd as I’d like, and I also can be as vague, I am able to create my own colors, mix them together, the paper is my canvas, the pen, my paint brush, my mind is the beautiful landscape that has inspired me to paint. Writing is a painful yet delightful task, it pulls out the gore inside, when I write I get to the depths, pulling out the raw, messy bits, I spread them all out and create a masterpiece. That is the magic in writing, something so parasitic, completely monstrous can be taken and transformed into something beautiful. Through writing, I have the power to tame the beast and cage it into the world of poetry. I live, because I write, I write because I have so much to say yet I do not know how to say it, almost as if I think in another language, subsequently speaking in that same dialect. I write because it speaks for me, my words interpret my mind, decoding even the most foreign thoughts.