Ask Van Gogh why he painted;
A lunatic left at his own devices
His grey mind sucking colors from the world into a canvas.
Each rub leading to liberation from the known world
The thick paste transforming a canvas;
Into a tapestry vibrating with colors and life.
With precision and trembling hands,
Drawing emotions into shapes.
Stitching tears into beautiful mosaic
Squeezing love from each strand of the brush bristles.
Sighing with a smile with completion of each piece,
But completion never came.
Lastly succumbing to a death of his own creation.
A silver bullet in his head.
I write because like Van Gogh;
I cannot stop
I write because I want to live
I write because when I stop I will be dead
I write because I am a lunatic
I write because it makes me sane
I write because God created me to do so,
I write for lovers, as they cuddle under the orange sun
I write for enemies, as they search for each other’s soul
I write for the morning sun, a gift from the creator
I write for the night, a blackboard for dreamers
I write for the young, the seeds of future them posses
I write for the old, the fruits of the future they behold,
I will write even if all I get is Facebook likes,
I will write even after my words have been recorded into books,
I will write even if I am the only one reading them
I will write even if the pen pierce my heart; the blood is my last piece of art.
I write because not even death can stop me.