To Write

To write, or not to write, that is the Question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Scratches and Stains of obsidian ink,
Or to take Arms against pale, white pages,
And by opposing leave them: to write, to create--
No more-- and by creating, to say I choose
the words, from which whole worlds bloom,
That tales are heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To write to live,
To live, in illusion perhaps too much; Ay, there's the rub,
For in that world of dreams, what frightful phantoms may approach,
When nightmares of ink come to life,
‘tis there I must give pause. Then's the point
That turns my thoughts to fear:
For who am I to bear the slash of bloody red,
the marks that cut so deep, that bring to light my wrongs,
The hours of writer’s block, the sleepless nights,
The red-rimmed eyes, and the frustrated
madness that so grips my aching head,
When you yourself might set attempts aside
For a few hours sleep? Who would start to pen
a work, to turn a heart to words,
But that the dread of an idle hand,
The swimming thoughts of unwritten tales
Snaking through my veins, drives me on,
And in my fist I find a pen,
and with it write the words.
Thus my heart is poured on page with hesitation,
‘til it finally flows ahead, no plan or end in sight
And wrestles down all doubts or fears,
With this regard I turn inwards,
And lose myself to stories.