I recently came to a realization.

I love writing.

I love everything about it. Creating a labrynth with my words, crafting a maze between paragraphs, and forging a way to enlightenment with my ideas.
I love being heard, having a voice, and writing out of choice.
I love to compose and I love thinking that someone is taking me seriously.
I love to write. Plain and simple. There's no need for me to elaborate on my reasons.
And no reason to collaborate on these multiple treasons.
I love to write so much it can't be right, to dream of words at night. To burn a book not out of spite, but for light.


This is no poetry. This is no song. This is writing. This is the swelling tumor of words in my head. This is the bullet forged loosely with lead.
This is that bullet exploding out of my head.