I write because

I write because I cannot sing
the way I hear my own voice,
or paint the shades and colors I imagine,
because my cooking doesn’t please my palate
and ripping out the crooked seams of words
never leaves dirty fingerprints.
Because written words obey me,
never wobbling, splashing or spilling,
never too salty or too sweet,
too high or too low, too pale
or scorched by heat or forgetfulness.
In the beginning were the words;
before I could crawl or walk,
I reached with sounds, with words.
I reached for praise, and received it.