The Alice Andrews Anthology

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

silly me

why you shouldn't try to write an instant
"all about me" poem
because that's what you get:

Yes, that's me
Look and you'll see

My hair a wavy dark mass
My eyes sparkling and blue
My hands like to caress
My arms reaching for you

At times I can't resist to be lazy
My heart 's on my sleeve
My friends call me crazy
Now I'll try to be brief

I live in a world of my own
I dream of a better me
I hope I'll not end up alone

It's all clear as can be
That's positively, absolutely me

Monday, September 26, 2005

in the beginning there was the word

why I write

because I want to.
because I love to.
because I have to.

Maybe I suffer from the disease that haunts all those poor individuals who consider themselves to be different.
Maybe I just lack someone to talk to.
Maybe I make up too many things in my head and there's not enough room for all of them.
Or maybe, and that's the explanation I personally tend to, there is no explanation.
I'm just the way I am and writing is simply a part of me.

I blame it on my fascination with words - or rather - my obsession with words. From an early age on I've always lived in my own world made of words. I am constantly writing the story of my life. Everything that ever happens to me is immediately commented by a tiny little voice in my head that is very insistent and therefore hard to ignore. I refuse to think of it as my own voice because it's kind of venomous and I'm a bit touchy when it comes to regarding myself as a malicious person.
There is, however something about it I wouldn't want to miss: It adds an alternative view to everything I see. As the real world is translated into the world of words I am able to interpret it a little bit easier and - hopefully - more accurately.
So that's where my affection for stories and story telling is rooted. Since I'm continually told lots of stories I just thought I'd share some of them.

So there, that's why I write.