Writing

For a long time now,

I have sat in silence

and held my tongue.

I have not written for far too long ...

Once I wrote and wrote

of love and life,

about death and pain and despair,

anything, dreadful or fair,

that touched me,

moved me,

annoyed or irritated me,

struck me somehow

or just caught my eye.

It may seem insane,

but I must have had ink in my veins

so to speak, or beter even: write ...

I know I need to write ...

To survive.

To feel the flow,

to heal my soul.

To be read

before I'm dead

would be nice,

but the writing itself

is essential ...

It prevents me from deceasing,

from growing grey within

and losing all colour

that my words can bring 

to life

and into your brain and vivid imagination ...

I must not cease

to mold with words

even if they are never read or heard ...

For writing is creating,

it is living, breathing, being, ...

being everything and yet just a pen,

being able to be nothing,

being in control,

being able to let go ...

Writing is what makes me (feel) alive,

It is what I am meant to do.

That, and other things too.

I must not stop again.

Therefore, I will, for once,

erase my last punctuation mark 

and "end" this with the words

to be continued