The only way to write is to write.
To express yourself and express some more.
And to speak your mind in every form,
Until your tongue is stretched out across the floor.

And as you write, show no signs of remorse,
For the words which you’ve always adored.
Since they only exist to be used by you,
And abused by you as you write henceforth.

With a passion, gusto, pride, and fire,
You must dig for the words which you desire,
To represent your hollow shell.
To speak of the heavens and of the hells,
In which you may or may not have already dwelt.

Would you learn how to speak before you think,
Be it only to share something distinctly known to you,
Within your thoughts?
Would you shape yourself into someone who’s not,
Afraid to question more often than not?

Because to write requires a questioning mind,
Which struggles against the ebb of time,
In the hourglass tipped on its side.
Hence why we see our very lives,
like shifting sands beneath our feet,
And the grains our memories stored inside.

So would you pull a perspective from within yourself,
And pass it around, and hopes it will help.
Because the truth to me most obviously,
Is that the world will spin,
But one day we will all die wordlessly.

And my hope for you is that you will write,
For whatever is left in your own life,
And not for whatever is next in line.