Writers' block.

Not everyone understands why we write. We, the nameless few who find solace in stringing thoughts and words along. We, the alleged artists, drama queens, cynics, and what-other-names we find ourselves branded with.

We have our blogs, leather-bound journals, bedroom walls, comfort room tiles, desks...

Not everyone would call them poetry. They'd be vandalism, doodles, nonsensical and almost always useless lines - the kind that wouldn't put food in one's mouth (au contraire, poems, articles, short stories, and other works may leave you with a bundle of cash), which would not help alleviate our country's economic and political suffering.

I understand their opinions. Not everyone can appreciate writings of the non-academic, non-news reporting kind about either the extraordinary or the mundane that do not really make the headlines. Not everyone can understand poetry: how it can release our anger and passion, how the sometimes grammatically incomplete sentences can convey the deepest tears, how the words can somehow soothe a weary heart.

Not all of us are well-known prolific writers or best-selling novelists. But that doesn't mean we can't try our hand in writing our poetry.

Let us, the nameless in the literary world, write. On our blogs and little pocket diaries. Without fear of mockery and belittling. We don't seek to please everybody, not even our very own readers, if we do have some. We write, because not doing so, would cut off our thoughts, our breaths, our very own lives.