Why do I write?

Why do I douse my deepest thoughts

In ink and lay them on a paper white

And weave them into words and verse

To what end, I wonder, do I write

I write, perhaps, with the hope someday

Someone may find the shards of my soul

Like petals dried in the pages of books

And put me together into a whole

And know me, beyond the gilded masks

I don for my mistress of vanity

And beyond the baubles bestowed on me

By the benign grace of destiny

And see me, beyond the clothes that hide

My naked flaws in thought and deed

My basest fears and baseless dreams

Memories that bruise, scars that bleed

I write so someone may know me someday

See the real me, without love or loathe

But simply, clearly, with a kind eye

As a soul would see its kindred soul

I write for the lonely child who plays

Hide and seek with the world around

And leaves a trail of words to her place

I write so someday she may be found