Why I write?

Pages, words scatter, name my name
There it is
Byline, on the fresh newsprint, or Suite 101, echoofthedesert or WordHustler
Elva K. Osterreich
That’s me, I can say something and
Maybe I’ll be on someone’s fridge
With the magnetic poetry and
Last week’s meatloaf recipe.

I write because I must be immortal
Because I will die and me, I will remain behind
Clawing through the Ethernet, on servers galore
Climbing through the future universe, maybe to Mars or Betelgeuse
Or creeping into the smallest heart, where
A dancing child, a lonely gentleman, an oldster in purple will
Feel a touch
A word touch
And that will be me.
Just me.

I write for butterflies, my children, darkness.
For making others understand what they can’t and
Know people they never thought they would care about
And for the people leaving, who should be remembered
With adventures, history, quiet ways that fade away.
I chronicle a place to die slowly, gold and red fiestas, magnificent achievements from old missions to failed rockets, children building magical labyrinths.

I write because without the words flowing out somewhere they might get jammed in
I could be word constipated, with just a trickle of thoughts left,
Or so piled my brain could explode.
Or they could get confused with my blood and act like the cholesterol
Causing a stroke, where the words instead of blood go coursing through
The synapses and frying the little ends of the brain cells
And then, well, who is to say how my brain would compensate, what new dark paths my thoughts would find to be released.

I write with no choice in the matter,
With no ability to not do so,
This is my spirit, soul, heart and flesh too,
Even with no name,
No byline,
No going down in history.
Still would I have to write.