Why do I write?

This is a piece that I wrote while having a bit of a writing ‘crisis’ questioning the subjects and styles that I was writing in and about and wondering if readers and listeners were getting what I was going on about. I think I’m more confident because of this self examination.


Why do I write
when it’s sometimes a fight
to get out of my head
what I want to be read.
To make it light
but when in plain sight
it’s reads mostly trouble
and sometimes a muddle
of things that you hope
people may find easy to cope…
with when they read
while inside you just plead
that they take it on board
as you meant, but they don’t applaud
as its dark and unfit
and may drop you in the shit
from a mind that has contracted…
into itself, a brain now so impacted,
those lost cares and sensitivities
banished by many odd proclivities.

So which part of you is real,
why do you deny what you feel
in a world that berates
all the things that it hates
or misunderstands.
Why is it hard to command
a body that has craving…
for things, as plain as paving
but, what it real?
when you must lie of how you feel.

To the few that still care,
are you being very fair
to them or yourself…
or should you put it high on a shelf
in a dark cupboard, locked…
safe away, saves being mocked
and then live out the lie
to the day that you die.

Soon you must make your choice,
decide now on which voice,
the one that is kind,
making noise, beating in time,
made of sugar and spiced…
puppy dogs tails, happily spliced
into a nice little boy,
only this one riddled with ploys,
where you hope to win favour
only really it’s never…
going to work
when a menacing dark
lingers close,
oh so close,
peaking out,
spreading doubt,
sucking down,
tarnishing the crown
that you wear as a cowl…
to yourself, still crying foul.

Now, it’s time to either put up
or shut up,
try to sit,
try to fit.
Is it done?
Yes, it’s done.

Who has won?

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2 thoughts on “Why do I write?

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