I do not write to spare anyone else's feelings,
but to save my own
It is the only time when I can be as honest as I please,
when I can speak what's on my mind in more eloquent ways than my stumbling and stuttering sentences

I have not the gift of the musical language the way Ravel does,
nor that of Tesla and the natural sciences
I cannot explain away why in fact the limit does not exist nor Pythagorus' innate ramblings,

but I can understand why Poe
was oh-so-miserable
and accept his love for beautiful dead women

I share Whitman's love of birds and their tales of woe for long lost lovers

Dickinson - hides herself -
the way I do - in her writings
and the ****** fly interposed itself in my light as well

Emerson and Melville tell tales of self reliance,
with Major Molineaux and Bartleby taking life by its reigns
but even Dante seeks Virgil's aid in finding hell

I am by far no writer of substantial merit
and have much to learn,
but that is exactly why I love what I do

I write to understand that which happens to and around me

I write in often vain efforts to find solid ground beneath my tired feet,
But most of the time,
I end up with paper scattered around me, full of words that I have yet to know

I write when I don't know what else to do,
even when I don't mean to find myself locked away,
scribbling meaningless words onto paper

I write to learn more of the errors of my ways,
maybe if I can gather my thoughts into one coherent phrase,
then I can finally accept my wrongdoings,
then I can grow

There is a sad realization that knocks me down with every ripple of its wave each and every time that my words cause grief or hurt

It is never my intention,
but even that is hard to believe

To say that i am sorry for them is pointless
I am not and never will be

How could I betray myself in such a way?

I write to escape
to understand
to create
to learn
to stand
on my own two feet
I write to be honest
among other things,
but most of all,

I write because it is all I know