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Description
Why must I think as I write?
Why must I write as I think?
To sit here and establish my thoughts?
To give you my personal feelings when no other can empathize?
Why do I even begin to do this?
Writing is a talent,
And yet I write this.
Discovering my talent meant that I could do something,
Not just think about what I want.
I want to become an author,
A film artist,
Hell even a poet if I choose.
But I can never stick to one thing.
Why is that?
It's as if I have so many thoughts that they can not be put on paper.
As I sleep my thoughts take flight,
I dream of a world that can not be.
Then I wake to find myself in a dangerous world that others fear and hate.
I want others to not fear,
To be happy,
To make them become someone else,
To escape into a world that I created.
Make them be themselves,
Be brave.
And as I sit here I realize I myself escape into my world that I create,
I am unable to get out,
I think and ponder,
Wish and hope.
I want to do something for others,
But I do not.
I am a coward,
I think of others,
But do nothing to help.
Why can't I help?
I want to help.
Is this what others feel like?
To sit here and write their feelings out?
I have not done this in so long.
Be able to sit and write,
Relax and let my words flow,
Listen to the rhythmic sound of my fingers gracefully tapping.
It's calming,
As if it is rain,
Or snow.
I feel things others can not,
And I write about them.
I guess I do answer my questions.
Why do I think as I write?
To know that I am still here.
Why must I think as I write?
To imagine a place others might want to escape to.
Why do I even begin to do this?
So that I know that I'm still alive.

Description
Why must I think as I write?
Why must I write as I think?
To sit here and establish my thoughts?
To give you my personal feelings when no other can empathize?
Why do I even begin to do this?
Writing is a talent,
And yet I write this.
Discovering my talent meant that I could do something,
Not just think about what I want.
I want to become an author,
A film artist,
Hell even a poet if I choose.
But I can never stick to one thing.
Why is that?
It's as if I have so many thoughts that they can not be put on paper.
As I sleep my thoughts take flight,
I dream of a world that can not be.
Then I wake to find myself in a dangerous world that others fear and hate.
I want others to not fear,
To be happy,
To make them become someone else,
To escape into a world that I created.
Make them be themselves,
Be brave.
And as I sit here I realize I myself escape into my world that I create,
I am unable to get out,
I think and ponder,
Wish and hope.
I want to do something for others,
But I do not.
I am a coward,
I think of others,
But do nothing to help.
Why can't I help?
I want to help.
Is this what others feel like?
To sit here and write their feelings out?
I have not done this in so long.
Be able to sit and write,
Relax and let my words flow,
Listen to the rhythmic sound of my fingers gracefully tapping.
It's calming,
As if it is rain,
Or snow.
I feel things others can not,
And I write about them.
I guess I do answer my questions.
Why do I think as I write?
To know that I am still here.
Why must I think as I write?
To imagine a place others might want to escape to.
Why do I even begin to do this?
So that I know that I'm still alive.