I have passion.
I have passion for painting and carving.
Singing and playing guitar.
Yet my hand is unsteady and my voice is off key.
I have passion for cooking and cleaning.
Intelligent discussion and deep introspection.
Yet my dishes are bland and my brain likes to sleep.
So I write.
All of the passion and pain and love and life that flows through my being and wishes to manifest itself within my multiple passions must find its way out in one way or another.
To hold it in would be to suffocate.
With my words I paint and carve my pain and love.
With sentences I construct skyscrapers of introspection.
Few may read it.
Fewer appreciate it.
Little to none understand it.
But I write for me.
I have passion for life, with all of its twists and turns.
And so I write.