Why I Write

It all started when I twas given one of those spiral notebooks for schoolwork at a child. I must have been 8 or 9 years old or so. That notebook twas meant for schoolwork...math, science, geography and the like. I never really thought about it because I never really liked school. I found it to be a place where I managed to get into trouble which would translate into still more trouble at home. I did not understand much of the work that twas required of me. I really did not have many friends and the teachers did not like me. So I did not see the point of school.
But one day I did see the point of that notebook. It had been a rough couple of days. I had been in a few fights and this had resulted in my father punishing me quite severely. I twas still quite sore...literally and figuratively...from his punishment as I arrived in the school yard and flopped myself down on the lawn in order to wait for the dreaded tolling of the school bells. As I landed on the grass my bookbag opened and out came spilling my notebook along with a black ballpoint pen. I started to scoop these back into my bag when inspiration hit me. I opened the book to the first page and began to spill my heart out...
"My Da tis a fucking bloody wanker. I do not understand how such a person can claim to be so good and holy when he does these things. How could he..."
"The teacher here tis a joke. She claims to be teaching when really all she does tis bore me and confuse the hell out of me..."
"I really do hate the other kids...why are they so full of themselves...why does life reek so...why...why...why..."
From that point on I knew two things. That I needed to write...whatever and whenever and however I could. As well that I needed to hide that notebook at all costs. Luckilly I succeeded on both counts and I continue to write to this day. I am sure that when tis my time to leave this world they shall have to pry the pen and paper from my cold, dead fingers.