Why do I want to write?
An interesting question that crosses my mind,
Unbidden, not necessarily unwanted, just not understood.
I lay here,
Contemplating the events of the day,
My mistakes and my actions,
Wondering why the itch stirs itself now.
What do I want?
What do I seek?
What do I believe I can gain from anything I write?
What makes my heart stir with passion?
What makes me think I have anything worthwhile to say?
What do I long for?
What does my heart desire?
Do cloud the horizon of my judgment with my own doubts?
Or do I anticipate calamity wisely and prudely?
Why does my mind flood constantly with the thoughts
Of one and only one person?
Does the enigma fascinate me that much?
Is this only a game I wish to play?
Do I value the person underneath the mystery?
Or do I treat her like a book whose cover interests me
Only to grow bored after a few pages?
Do I have fears founded in reality?
Or is it just my heart wishing for clarity
Eagerly filling in the holes with guesses and half-truths to soothe my
Do I value sound judgment in others
But fail to examine myself?
Do I give in too easily
And then grow frustrated when events transpire
Exactly like I said they could?
Do I listen, truly listen not just hear, the counsel of others?
Or did subvert their conclusions with doubts of my own
Since I cannot believe the truth?
Do I pass on the expectations of myself to others
Only to be surprised when they act differently than I expect?
Oh, double-minded man, you see truth and deem it lies.
You have been hurt so badly
That joy seems impossible
And everything must have an underlying motive.
Peace again reaches my soul
With my own chastisement.
For I know see
My own folly.
Worrying about everything
Seizing happiness is difficult,
Especially if you never try.
I’d rather fail, fail miserably in fact,
Then have lost out on something amazing
Because I was too afraid to try.
Hesitation, breeds worry,
And multiplies into regrets.
I will not be the prisoner
To the master of indecision
And I will not be a slave to worry.
Happiness stands at my door,
I can hear her gentle knocking,
My hand grasps the knob ever so tightly,
Fear twisting a knot in my stomach.
Beyond my door lies a future
Of endless possibilities
That I cannot control.
I can’t schedule time for joy,
I can’t pencil in love,
And I certainly can’t restrict happiness.
So I open the door,
And allow myself to be pulled
In directions I would have never gone otherwise.
For it is not the destination,
Or even the journey
That makes the ride worthwhile.
It is the companion beside me,
The hand that I hold,
And the smile makes my heart skip a beat.
Is why I write.