Why I write

Sometimes you want to write. Write down every single thing that flips  across your temporal space. Whether its gibberish or the most intense feelings of your heart, you just want to type it all down. Rip out every single thought out of your skull and implant it somewhere else. Just get rid of the clutter that keep playing tricks on you.

"All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality."

~ George Orwell

It's just there

simmering down, somewhere in the

attic of this cluttered brain matter

it varies in forms and frames

like those splashy colors that are dear to me

I like to change and try them all

some I dislike, sore to my eyes

no reasons I can tell

why I despise them, I just do

don't even try

People palavering me

and clinging that drives me

deep personal possessions

like some good music

renders me blind

Sun that's new everyday

so are the shadows it designs

so often I want to paint it all

all the designs and ideas behind

I want to write it all

If not write then

shout it out loud

beginning to end

I just want to put it in rhyme

but, it doesn't

It remains there

hiding out, may be waiting

for the right time and place

or maybe there isn't a space

where I can write it down.