Why must i write,
Keeping me up all night?
Why must I see my pain on the page,
Causing a deeper understanding of my rage?
Why must love spill over from my pen,
Resulting in a truer love from within?
Why do i hate to feel, so strong,
Even when perfection turns to wrong?
Does anyone know what it's like,
To turn words over as you write?
Am I alone,
Sitting on my syntax throne?
Am I the verbal master,
Waiting on certain disaster?
Sometimes, I wish I was a derelict,
Instead of finding the words that always fit.
I turn thoughts in my head,
For what I write i sometimes dread.
Maybe, with a dead mind I won't realize,
Even the greatest writers someday dies.