Why? By CpSingleton © 2014
Why do I Write?
Why have I always written?
I look back along the timeline of
My short, swift life,
Stopping at various points to
Examine my hands.
In-between moments of pretending to be:
A chef or rigger,
A salesman or team leader,
A fryer or check-out singer and
Even pretending to be an actor…
There has always been a crayon,
A pen or notebook grasped
Like inca gold.
Whether I was a speeding mess,
Hunched over a pad.
A lolly-pop man of
Wishing for a princess to
Kick in the battered door and
Take me in her arms. Or
A small child, cold in a larder.
The damp running down the walls,
The spiders scuttling under
The fragile camp-bed.
My hot breath crashing the cold party,
Creating plumes of white cloud that
Floated to the cracked paint
Above my fascinated head.
I could zip up and down my life,
Stopping at numbers and points,
Like I was on a giant slide-ruler and
I would always see a crude representation
Of the man I am today:
The act itself has saved each of those Jekylls and Hydes.
Stopped them from fully detonating their inner bombs.
Relieved them from the duty of screaming
Their larynx across a busy street.
Writing has also
Forced their eyelids open when they only
Wanted to be clamp closed on the dark clouds.
Forced the blue eyes to see between the
Fierce black swirls to observe
Armies of soldiers grasping
Spears of golden light,
Ready to piece the barrier before them.
To shine down and
Dilute the facade of grey that
Spreads across the minds of some folk
Like heavy tarpaulin,
I write to let that joy breath.
I write so that when I leave this earthly body behind
To join hands with the universe and
Dance among the stars of other galaxies,
I may have something to come back to
To remind me that I was once here.
I wasn’t just another drone bee:
An empty mind who lived and died and
Warranted only five words chiselled onto stone.
I write in hope that others will read the words
Like orienteers, seeing the map of my life, and
Before taking a simpler, safer route.
I write because I believe that
The pen IS mightier than the sword.
This writer finds causing physical pain abhorrent and
Has trained long enough to express adequately
Without drawing blood.
I write because it is as much a part of me as
The Middleton ears and nose that
I inherited from my father.
Unlike my ears and nose:
I write because I love it!
I love it more than Chinese food!
I love it more than the spine-tingling sound
Of thirty-nine thousand Leeds fans singing:
MARCHIN’ ON TOGETHER!
And I cartwheel at that!
It makes me feels alive!
Without it I would be a plastic copy
Of the person I am.
Without it I would be a rat in a cage,
Face set to full dull capacity.
I would be a living and breathing corpse,
Walking a 3D world.
Failing to see that several dimensions govern this life.
Failing to appreciate the rain for more
Than the dreary dampness it appears.
Seeing the sun for only an excuse to wear shorts and
Not the beauty it allows to flourish.
That is why I write.
As you can see,
I find it hard to stop.