I never really gave thought to the reason why I write. Some of you say you do because it is therapeutical so you string a few words, or more, and tell us a story or two, true or not, express your pain or hurt, laughs and joy, deeds and intents, desires and sexcapades. Some of us only rant and wish life was not the way it was.
It may not get better right now but the words given vent to could lighten the writer.
I used to write because it was beautiful to create something out of nothing. More than not likely, it would start with a blank page & then out pours essence from your heart & mind and it turns from letters to words, from words to sentences, from sentences to paragraphs, from paragraphs to chapters, from chapters to books.
And some authors are borne.
It is beautiful, and sounds easy on the ear too, the way the words fall in steady rhythm and charming rhymes. A few lines carrying so much meaning expressed from the heart of the writer to the mind of the reader.
There’s no better meaning to the word poetry.
Words fall out of spaces, into more decipherable characters than hieroglyphics, although not necessarily in English Language. A language so deep, yet so illogical. My honest opinion.
I love the way it doesn’t follow most of the times; as stubborn like a mule.
I am heavy hearted, & I wish my words would cheer me up but I find them not thus my rage. I am bereft of the verbal skill to lay hold of and partake of the healing milk they say writing gives. This amateur writer is blocked.
