I Write

I write.
To both love and like.
As well as to be used.
As my own personal therapeutic device.

There are moments when the doing of this,
Comes to me done to become welcomed.
Wherever and anywhere I may be,
I carry a pen.
To begin my therapy session.
With questions to ask.
And answers that seem to continue the task,
Without satisfying to end...
More questions I have.
Sometimes foolish.
Leaving me to wonder about the life lived,
By someone else.
Who has no hint or clue as to what I do.
Yet makes us both,
Begin to feel uncomfortable too!

'I'm sorry.
I was not directly staring at you.
Believe it or not,
I am a writer.
And as a writer to love and like it,
My mind takes off to explore new ways...
Of a reality,
To sometimes fiction to delude...
My own interpretation of what could be true.'

'No offense taken.
There are times when I awaken,
Before the Sun begins to rise?
I imagine myself,
Being a peeping Tom.
And one early morning,
My neighbor caught me.
To then call the police.
And without warning,
I was arrested...
For disturbing someone else's peace.
And guess what?'

'What?'

'Not a pen or pad did I have in my hand.
To claim I was a writer.
So,
The moral of my story is this...
Be quick to get the message!'

'Seriously.
I am a writer.
For real.'

'I could care less who you are or what you do.
But you are all up in my grill.
And I don't like the way,
You are making me feel.
Without my given consent or approval.'

I write.
Most times day and night.
Caught up in my own World.
Believing myself to go unnoticed.
Doing to love and also like what I do.
And used as my own therapeutic tool.
With it not to think at all,
There are some places and situations...
Being unconscious as to what it is I do.
And where I choose to do it too!
Could be hazardous to my own well-being!