Why do you write?

“Why do you write?” The voice said

“I write to clear my mind”, I said

“Of thoughts that would have gone unsaid

Of dreams I hardly dare to share

Of hope I barely dare to bear.”

“Why do you write?”Again it chimed

“Why, to free my mind of course

Of the worries and doubts that suppress my thoughts

Of the mumbles and stutters that befuddle my words

Of the chaos and madness that weaken my bonds.”

“Why do you write?” It seemed quizzical

“To experience adventure”, I said

To travel the worlds and make my mistakes

And accomplish my goals without taking a break.”

“Why do you write?” It said finally

“I write for my conviction

For my voice

For my love

For my life

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Nighttime

The silent whispers

The cold shivers

The burning embers

The rising tempers

The roaring wind

The shaking trees

The feel of my icy breath as it leaves my lips.

A quiet tremor

A noiseless quiver

Is that a shadow coming hither?

The awkward glances

The frightened stances

Then suddenly all gone, one by one

Through the curtain of darkness.

Echoes 

Echoes.

A whistling sound, 

The roar of the crowd,

The quiet breeze,

The wind through the trees,

The rustle of the leaves,

The sound as my feet

Hit the pavement as I speed.

Running, Racing, Searching,

Pondering the vastness of the multiverse,

As I wander through my little universe.

A friendly hello,

A bombarding of voices as they pass me by,

Each with their own hellos

And sad goodbyes.

Their own universes.

Their own timelines.

Their own lives.

But still I hear the echoes,

Echoes of a world gone by,

A world that had hope and watched it die,

A world that killed its soul and then sprung alive,

And as though from a million miles

I hear them.

Their pains.

Their sorrows.

Their joys.

The gladness that abounds with no cares for tomorrow.

I hear the echoes.

The echoes that will carry us to a brighter day,

To a world that we hope our children will stay,

And hope that one day through the hustle and bustle of the life of tomorrow,

They’ll hear our echoes,

And ponder with hopes for an even better morrow.

Bleak

She killed a part of herself that day.
The most important part.
She hadn’t realized she had done it
’til she couldn’t feel with her heart.

She killed a part of herself that day.
The part filled with wonder;
Hopes and dreams and promises unspoken,
Not one remained for plunder.

She killed a part of herself that day.
The part she loved the most.
It took her to the most magical places;
Joy and happiness weren’t distant faces.

She killed a part of herself that day.
The world was bleak,
For the part that made fantasy her reality 
Was swept away by the storms’ wind.

She killed a part of herself that day.
But the question still remained:
In the darkness that suffocates and binds,
Will she revive that part if she had the chance?