Now here's a little story that I got to tell
about what got me to start writing you don't know so well
it start way back, in history when I lost something very close and dear to me
When I was still a kid about the fifth or sixth grade
I loved music my action figures and kung fu movies like the raid
it was a lovely spring day that I lost this something
and changed my life forever and got my notebook thunping

I was sitting at the table eating dinner as it was the nighttime
and as sure as now that I'm writing this rhyme
I fell out from the table, and seized on the floor
I woke up tired and queasy along with sore
so that's the story of what inspired me to write
what did I lose? I lost my old life

I write because my head is full of things I cannot say out loud.
I write for the way my heart bleeds when people cut into it.
I write as my heart swells with joy until I feel like the Grinch on Christmas day.
I write when I cannot think of anything but hate;
The words angrily scrawled out on paper like hot flames burning up my emotions.
I write to let everything out.
I write because writing cannot talk back;
It can't tell me I'm wrong or to change something
It is purely just me.
I write because it is the one thing that will not judge me no matter what I say.
I write because writing is all I have.

I write to spill love, loss, and hate onto blank pages instead of my conscience.

I never thought
to write again,
after self-doubt
and a loathing
for my words
infected me.

Knife wounds left
me scarred,
negativity to my craft
left me adrift
on a sea of questions.

But I healed.

The bleeding was stopped
by a true passion
for that creative sequence
of thoughts which leads to
poetry.

I healed.
I became strong.

I no longer feel
a need
to justify my work.

I write because.
Just because.

The secret is that none can teach poetry,

You're born with it,
You're born from it.

It's like a cut on your heart
That will never heal,
That will never ill,
That cannot ****,
The blood will seal ,
into words so real,
To paint what you heal.
It is a thrill,
With it,
There's no heart you can't steal.

It can scab over,
But that can be cured with a stab.
It is not a fad,
Cat's out of the bag,
But it's not sad,
I showed you a gift you always had,
To break the curse with a blast.

Let your blood drip into the page,
Meditate over fields of sage,
It's the map to the maze,
The string to lift the haze.