I don’t have the answers,
Not yet anyway;
The questions building up inside me,
Torturing me till date;
Maybe if I say it out loud,
The voices would refrain;
But the truth Is dear voices,
Even I don’t know what to say;
Though I might be a writer,
I don’t know why I write everyday.
Maybe it’s to make a difference,
make a change, leave my name.
Stamp my mark in the sand of time,
leave my footprint in peoples heart;
Lessen the burden my heart weighs,
pour out frustrations my head can’t take;
Maybe a little less, maybe more-
Maybe it’s none of the things above.
Until I do find the answers,
to the questions that you pose-
Dear voices, bear with me,
As I write the time away…
You write because you’re a writer. What you write about may change day to day, but I would guess it is a part of you; in your blood.
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Yh I guess you’re right. Writing is a part of us, of me. I hope it never goes away, cause what would life be without writing 🙂
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Another blogger and myself were just talking about that: where would we be without writing. We’ve both been through some messy, painful stuff and writing is our outlet. I think we would’ve been in the nuthouse by now without it.
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like it! Keep writing!
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Thanks Joy, I hope to.
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We all have same identities when it comes to writing 🙂 Take care ❤
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Thank you 🙂
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Reblogged this on Hope Contagium.
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Someone was calling
I’m not sure who
But still l listen in sleep I fell
Yet I couldn’t because the voices were to loud
I had to wake for every time I fell the louder the voices got
No Name No Face just Voice
Yet there were still no answers
Just words upon words
Deep within a poets mind
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