Why do I write?

For the housewife and the businessman
The elderly and the children
The architect artist and musician
Desperate to let them breathe

Breathe life into the body, the voice
That with time has faded
And with luck will jump back out again
No longer worn and jaded

The first real person to offer not force
Something I knew was valued
My mother from whom I could absorb
Her words that were not a jumble
Her love, her honesty, her compassion
Her helpfulness and lack of apathy
Helping create my characters, their personality
My first heroin in a child’s story
At the age of 7 I wrote ‘Sophie and the strange house’
A protagonist who started out as quiet as a mouse
She ventures out into the new world
Taking her own steps rather than be hurled
Fed from Duffy to Canavan, Sarasate and Mozart
The ideas took hold and flowed like paint
The canvass was paper or the back of my hand
Whatever was closer, no need to be grand
Even sitting staring at a wall
Can bring something colourful, no need to call
Shout out for inspiration, except when it got stuck
The passageways blocked in the ground and the muck
Just a little bit of digging out of the ground
Free my mind and let it expand

It is needing a way to communicate
With the outside world without becoming a pompous ass
I realise it’s a difficult prospect
And some fail in the attempt at selflessness
I am eight thousand six hundred and so many days old
And I have plenty more to spare
For what I want and what I need
I need to write, I want to share

Why do you write? Come on tell me

all that matters to me at the moment is that i enjoy life for more than its worth. life is worth shit unless you can really appreciate whats happening at this procise moment. For me its being prepared for my third year of uni and making sure the place is clean and tidy to prevent any growth (ive seen kin and aggy- YUK) and taking up any opportunity to enjoy myself and get out and about.