Why I Write

The Writer

​I've always been fascinated by words,
The funny little characters dancing on the snow white backdrop,
Some so elegant and graceful,
While others are blockish and hurried.

They seem so simple, so easy to use and manipulate,
Creating something sprung from somewhere I've never seen or heard of,
And yet, there the product lies, orderly and clean to my eyes,
Ready to be shown to another.

I'm not sure where it's born from,
But the order I see has another effect on people,
Because where I see words in their proper order, simple and plain,
People say I've placed beauty and depth.

I look at what I've written and compare it to works I've read,
Things so beautiful and so very enchanting,
Words woven together to create new worlds,
Opening the doors to places never before dreamed of.

It is not that my own words are displeasing,
The order's right, and that does please me,
But they don't offer the same magic the others do
They don't open the same doors; they don't seem quite right.

Perhaps it is because I already know them,
I understand the magic they hold, I know the doors and the worlds beyond them,
So maybe it's not quite as enchanting for me
As it is for those who read it.

Who knows why it is so?
But what I write is not intended solely for me,
So if others like what I create, so be it,
I'll continue to write so long as there is a demand for it.

It may not always be easy to weave a new spell,
To forge something brand new and intriguing,
Only to fail to see the beauty others do,
But to see that smile spread across their face as their eyes trace the words upon the page,
Makes being a writer so much easier.