Is it because,
You don't have anyone to talk to?
Or because you want to spread emotions,
Like when you're feeling blue?

Is it because you're sad,
And need someone to hear you vent?
So you sit alone and write,
Then wonder where the time went?

Is it because,
You don't have a life of your own?
So writing for others,
Is like a second home?

Is it because,
Painting isn't enough?
Because there aren't enough colours,
To show how life is tough?

Is it because,
You're needing a friend?
To tell them how your patience,
Is nearing its end?

Is it because,
You're seeking attention?
You want someone to notice you,
Like it's life's redemption?

Is it because,
Every word you write,
Is like the first star,
In a starless night?

Is it because,
When you get out of bed,
You say it'll be a bad day,
And it isn't just in your head?

Is it because,
Writing for others,
Is a coping mechanism,
Hiding from fathers and mothers?

Is it because,
When you read it out loud,
Microphone in hand,
You hear claps of a small crowd?

Is it because,
That tiny crowd you make up,
Is just imagination,
Telling you to wake up?

Or is it because,
All of these things combined,
Creates the monster which is you,
The you, you can't find.