A poem about writing.
I write and edit, then write some more
Somedays it’s like breathing and others, a chore
At times I force it, a few words on the page
Then it flows in rivers, rapids that rage
There’s never a reason, rarely a rhyme
Most think it silly, a waste of my time
But still I keep writing the words I like best
Because in the end, it brings my soul rest
You don’t have to like it. I don’t need you to care
I do it for the moments that I crave it like air
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