Writer, Write!
Write like it's the last words you will ever speak.
Write like it’s the last words you will ever speak Like you are waiting in the gallows to be hanged Where the world has abandoned you The truth conveniently forgotten Write like it’s your final confession and Every word is weighed for authenticity But hours have turned into seconds Slipping away faster than a roaring river Write with your heart gaping open Nerve endings quivering with need Pour out your blood on the page Like it was your last chance for salvation Write about your insanity so that We can feel validated in ours Alone together on this blue planet Stitched into a perfect landscape Write like your words are brilliant colors Painted into a magnificent rainbow From the innocent heart you still carry The place where awe still breathes Write with vulnerability till the mask Finally slips off your beautiful face To show the spirit shining bright Under the writhing demons of pretend Write as if your words will save us Before we all descend into crazy Forgetting that love is the reason For our collective human adventure
We all write for a reason, but the best reason is love
This poem feels like someone taking the writer by the shoulders and saying: don’t hold anything back not now, not ever.
There’s a trembling honesty in the idea of writing as if the gallows were waiting, as if truth were the last thing you still owned.
It asks for words that bleed because only what is real painfully real can reach another human being.
The poem treats vulnerability as a kind of courage, the moment when the heart stops hiding and finally speaks in its own voice.
There’s a deep tenderness in the call to share our madness so we don’t have to feel alone inside it.
It believes fiercely in the innocent heart still beating beneath all the masks we learn to wear.
The invitation to write in colour, in awe, feels like a reminder that wonder is still alive somewhere inside us.
The moment the mask slips is described not as shame, but as liberation the spirit finally breathing without permission.
Writing becomes an act of love here, a way of holding each other steady in a world that keeps trying to unravel us.
In the end, the poem is a plea to write so truthfully that our words become a lifeline for ourselves, and for anyone who still remembers that love is the point of being human.