I Write

I write, and write, and write some more,
as if the words will help me breathe.
An addiction rather than a chore,
the start, the end, the in-between.

I write knowing that it will hurt,
each time the words force me to feel.
What are these small moments worth?
In black and white I know they’re real.

I change my world with lines and ink,
observe and change and cross things out.
Too fast for me to overthink,
to change what this is all about.

I write until the ground holds still.
Until the walls stay where they should.
I know it’s close to overkill,
but I needed to know I could.