The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. The ability to inspire, to lead, to  save; one’s ability to paint, to dance, to fight, using but words on a page is a writer’s true  privilege and purpose. 

Words hold power, and an individual carries the ability to craft and weave a text together as  a projection of oneself and their ideals. A writer not without drive, but instead has yet to find their  true selves, is loosely, as Faulkner said, like a butterfly yet to spread its wings. 

There is always a something deep within an individual’s being that waits to bloom or spread  its wings. That something drives a person and their writing, weak or strong, that one thing is the  only true something that one will never be able to remove from themselves, and by association  their writing, without losing themselves. 

To lose oneself is to write of nothing but pain and despair without the courage and bravery  needed to face the harsh realities of their writing. 

To suffer without courage is to break. And to write without oneself is simply the first step to a  vicious cycle. 

Large or small, the breakage of something close to one’s heart chips at an individual’s self  and often the only way to heal is to use that something within yourself. 



To put it simply, a writer’s purpose is to heal themselves and others with their something. At  least in my eyes.