Aug 2010
A thought in the mind with an intuition of the soul.
Why?
Why do we write?
What we write.
When we write.
The cause.
The emotion.
The start of it all.
A large door backed up with emerging traffic.
Are you wanting to let others through?
Revealing your mind,
Your ultimate motive.
Was it euphoria?
That feeling when nothing made you feel higher.
No person or thing could take you down from your throne.
For one moment in time you could pass on that stimulation.
By bringing together, pen and paper,
You've began--
No turning back now.
Your mind-set back to that very moment.
Was it anger?
That feeling when nothing has made you feel so irate.
You've reached your boiling point,
Red with fury.
Your brow out of alignment.
Your utensil lashing out on paper as if it were your own mouth.
Screaming to the world at the top of your lungs.
If only they knew.
Was it nervousness?
That feeling when you just want to crawl up in a ball and die,
Hide back in your little corner.
Just writing about it sends beads of sweat down your forehead.
The time the whole world has eyes on you when your fearful eyes are so very blank.
Was it anticipation?
That feeling when you've almost reached the peak of the plot.
You know it's coming.
Chills are sent down your spine,
Wanting to share this excitement with everone surrounding you.
Was it sadness?
The sorrow, pain, and suffering.
You weep and want others to feel as if they were right there with you.
To build a lasting compassion.
To gain a sense of struggle,
A sense of not knowing if it will ever get better.
To feel for you.
Finding the reason for that long face through your writing.
Was it the kind action of lending a hand?
Through your thoughts,
Your voice on paper.
To touch lives.
To embrace a being without a single touch.
To listen without any attention.
To comfort without showing your physical affection.
That passion.
That motivation.
That satisfaction of someone coming up to you and saying, "Thank you."
Was it your mind purely running wild?
Story after story.
Thought after thought.
Creating characters by the hour.
Minute.
Second.
Its racing had reached no end.
One solution,
Slabbing it all on paper.
Who else to listen, but an audience.
Too many thoughs and ideas to keep inside.
Cerebral overload.
Was it simply an experience?
Yearning for the reader to be right there beside you,
At that very moment in time,
At that place,
With that person,
Saying those things,
With that look upon their face.
That feeling,
In your gut,
With that person,
At that place,
At that moment in time.
Was it knowledge?
To inform the reader possible facts.
Statistics.
Dates.
Times.
Your background.
How you became a writer.
The motivation.
The incentive.
That gut-wrenching feeling,
Deep inside of you,
Screaming to get out.
Pounding the walls of your mind to escape,
To let others in.
What you write.
When you write.
Why you write.
Why?
A thought in your mind with an intuition of your soul.
Why?
Why do we write?
What we write.
When we write.
The cause.
The emotion.
The start of it all.
A large door backed up with emerging traffic.
Are you wanting to let others through?
Revealing your mind,
Your ultimate motive.
Was it euphoria?
That feeling when nothing made you feel higher.
No person or thing could take you down from your throne.
For one moment in time you could pass on that stimulation.
By bringing together, pen and paper,
You've began--
No turning back now.
Your mind-set back to that very moment.
Was it anger?
That feeling when nothing has made you feel so irate.
You've reached your boiling point,
Red with fury.
Your brow out of alignment.
Your utensil lashing out on paper as if it were your own mouth.
Screaming to the world at the top of your lungs.
If only they knew.
Was it nervousness?
That feeling when you just want to crawl up in a ball and die,
Hide back in your little corner.
Just writing about it sends beads of sweat down your forehead.
The time the whole world has eyes on you when your fearful eyes are so very blank.
Was it anticipation?
That feeling when you've almost reached the peak of the plot.
You know it's coming.
Chills are sent down your spine,
Wanting to share this excitement with everone surrounding you.
Was it sadness?
The sorrow, pain, and suffering.
You weep and want others to feel as if they were right there with you.
To build a lasting compassion.
To gain a sense of struggle,
A sense of not knowing if it will ever get better.
To feel for you.
Finding the reason for that long face through your writing.
Was it the kind action of lending a hand?
Through your thoughts,
Your voice on paper.
To touch lives.
To embrace a being without a single touch.
To listen without any attention.
To comfort without showing your physical affection.
That passion.
That motivation.
That satisfaction of someone coming up to you and saying, "Thank you."
Was it your mind purely running wild?
Story after story.
Thought after thought.
Creating characters by the hour.
Minute.
Second.
Its racing had reached no end.
One solution,
Slabbing it all on paper.
Who else to listen, but an audience.
Too many thoughs and ideas to keep inside.
Cerebral overload.
Was it simply an experience?
Yearning for the reader to be right there beside you,
At that very moment in time,
At that place,
With that person,
Saying those things,
With that look upon their face.
That feeling,
In your gut,
With that person,
At that place,
At that moment in time.
Was it knowledge?
To inform the reader possible facts.
Statistics.
Dates.
Times.
Your background.
How you became a writer.
The motivation.
The incentive.
That gut-wrenching feeling,
Deep inside of you,
Screaming to get out.
Pounding the walls of your mind to escape,
To let others in.
What you write.
When you write.
Why you write.
Why?
A thought in your mind with an intuition of your soul.
