This Is Why I Write

This Is Why I Write

Have you ever found
Some words around the house
That had been forgotten
Hiding behind some memories
in a wooden box
filled with useless keys
that never opened anything important?

Words written when life
was obscurely twisted
It's hard to believe
This girl existed
Now that you have acquired
A place in harmony.

You're sitting on the concrete
Of a convoluted garage
You meant to clean some eons ago.
Your chance to reminisce
With the twisted girl
Who should not exist
Extracting emotions
From your soul.
That's the moment you know,
This is why I write.

Were you ever so riddled
With tormenting grief
That thoughts of joy
Were beyond belief
And it was agonizing just to smile
At those who pitied you?

Despondency ravages
Your fragile self esteem.
Your image of the world
Is hideous and mean.
And you have to choose
Which weapon of self loathing
Best applies to your contemptible suicide.
You choose the pen before the knife.
That's when you realize,
this is why I write.

Has there ever been a time
When a loved one held
A contradictory view from you?
As hard as you tried
You could not fathom the pride
Taken in their mistaken outlook
On some obsolete situation
That afforded no words on paper.
Arguing seems futile,
So you write about it for a while,
And it all comes clear.
You can hear the reason
In the argument clearly.
This is why I write.

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not normal