Why I Write.

It's rare that anyone has ever asked me why I write. To be honest, the only time was probably when JBomb asked everyone on twatter. People just know that I write, and I think that because they don't know why it is that I write, it's impossible for them to understand why it means so much to me and why I spend so much time working on my stories.
Currently, I'm feeling invisible in my house. My mother is upset with me for some reason or another, and to be honest, I want to cry right now. She's only spoken to me when she needs me to do something, but when I say things in general, just to talk, she gives me single-word responses, if she even responds at all.
It hurts. It honest to God hurts me.

She's never been able to understand why I write so much, or how it works. We've had arguments where I've ended up crying trying to explain to her my method, and how writing is so much more than just some little "side hobby." Yes, I'm majoring in Education. But writing will ALWAYS be a part of me, and no matter what career I go into, I will always be working on some kind of writing project as well.
Some of my friends tell me I should share my writing with her to help her understand. And many times, I've wanted to, but I feel like it won't do any good. She's read my poetry in the past, and she loves it, and she's told me I'm good. But she still treats it like it's this phase I'm going through that will eventually fade into the background, though she's all wrong. So I feel that if I share with her some of my works, she's going to tell me, "Oh, these are good," and then just move on.

I don't want her to move on. I want her constant encouragement.
I want to know my mother believes in me.


I want to share the reasons why I write here, for you all to see, and to try to understand. Writing isn't just a hobby for me. It's a very, very big part of my life. Writing is written on my heart, and it courses through my veins. If someone asks me what it is I like to do, I say, "I write." It's as simple as that. I like to read, but that's a hobby. Writing? Writing is SO much more to me than that.

I write because it's the one thing in this world I feel I'm good at.
I write because it makes me feel like I'm in control of part of my life.
I write to deal with the pain in my heart that never truly goes away.
I write to block out memories of things I wish I could forget.
I write because of all the early morning trips taken with my mom to bail my brother out of jail, again.
I write to keep from sinking deeper, back into depression.
I write because when I write, reality fades away, and the pain and loneliness I feel go along with it.
I write because my parents don't understand it. Sometimes, I write to spite them.
I write for the friends I've made, who lift me up and encourage me to continue.
I write because it makes me feel proud of myself. I haven't been proud of myself very much in my life.
I write because I thought he loved me, but I was wrong.
I write because I feel pretty damn lost when I don't.
I write to hide away.
I write to find myself.
I write when there are things I wish to say that I'm too afraid to.
I write to keep from beating myself down.
I write because no one can tell me I can't.
I write because it's pulled me out of some dark places in my life, much more successfully than anything or anyone else.
I write because I know it would make my Pappy proud of me.
I write because words are constantly running marathons in my head, begging to be jotted down or typed up.
I write because I cry myself to sleep some nights.
I write to create lives much better or more interesting than my own.
I write because I'm in love with writing. I'm in love with creating plots, and characters, and settings, and with the way words flow, and sentences, and paragraphs, and language...and everything.
I write because it's in me to.
I write because it's honestly my one true constant. It never breaks me down, or leaves me out to dry. It never fails me, or makes me feel ashamed or guilty. I write when everything around me is crumbling to pieces. I write to make my grand escape. I write because when I do, nothing can touch me.

I write because I write. And if I didn't write, I don't know where I'd be right now.

To the boy in all the angry songs.

4:03 a.m.

Well, break my heart, why don't you?
It's not like you'll ever fill the crack
You stayed oblivious while I was sinking
Sinking slowly; I thought I was in love

It was a masquerade ball and you put on your costume
I got all dolled-up, thinking I was the one you were going to choose
Turns out I'm the fool,
The laughing stock; again.

Naivety was bliss for me and
I was easy keeping in your grasp...
I waited in the wings,
You put on a show; your clock was ticking fast.
Mine was a few seconds behind.

And I struggled with my sanity
While you were only breaking me,
Though all the while,
I colored you a savior.
But now I'm grown and I see through
And I found the very root of you
And maybe I will never know if you cared.

But I've been standing still on quicksand hills
Waiting for a man to come along
And save me,
But he wasn't a man; he was nothing more than a boy.
And he was too far; he was long gone.

And I grow; every day, I grow
Though sometimes moments tick by slowly
I face the day and rise
And put you two steps behind
Just to fall back into your tracks again.

So many times, we've been here before
I keep closing and reopening this door.
And I can pretend that you don't faze me
But you play me like a string
On a guitar
And I've held on to every scar.

This fall was the hardest.
There was no band-aid to patch over the wound
There was no cushion-soft landing;
There was only ground to break my fall,
And break I did.

Someday, he'll come.
And he'll mean more to me than you could ever mean.
And he'll stand and say he loves me with
Such conviction that I cannot doubt him.
And he will be what I've been looking for...
He'll be everything you're not.

So I will wait for him.

And I will wait for my clock to catch yours and go ticking swiftly past.