Why must I write?
When there's so much better,
Prose, poetry, free styling words,
So much more elaborate,
So beautifully knit together,
While I create patchworks of rhymes, and reason,
This silence would ****,
This inability to express to people,
Because paper patiently listens,
Because this desire-less life feels a little lived when pen meets paper,
But I don't write in ink,
Charcoal let's me rethink,
Who knows what's going to happen next,
And if you did, what would you really do differently?
Can you escape yourself?
Wherever you go, there you are