The Existential Optimism of a Cynic

Poetry?
Form?
Metre?
Bah. It's nothing but nonsense that pretenious
folk trying to appear as intellectuals utilize to attempt-
nay, struggle- to appear as if they have some depth,
as if their words have some greater meaning.
They do not.
Nothing does.
Nothing will.
And yet, I count myself among these
drivel-slinging, empty headed buffons,
ironically attempting to eviscerate people
in the same mode that I critisize. 
Hypocrite!
Idiot!
Phillistine.
Say what you will about me, but the modern poet is
as empty as a gnat, and only attempts to show meaning
by speaking vaguely in order to let the reader 
fill in the blanks for him.
Lazy.
Vapid.
Dull.
Perhaps once, there was a skill to poetry, a
clever wordplay set out by meter and ryme and
rhythm, but such things are gone, lost in the midst of 
a torrent of obfuscated and non-existant meaning.
Hacks.
Liars.
Pretenders.
Perhaps, I'm just bitter, upset that my own grasping attempts
at finding meaning through verse have come out empty, that I cannot
speak on the fly, that every word has to be calculated, until I give up,
and begin to laugh silliness on the page before me.
Sophistry.
Veil.
Excuse.
So, I sit here in self reflection, wondering just why
 I continue to write. Not just why I continue to write this
piece of garbage at this moment, but rather, why I
have continued to attempt poetry despite my disdain.
Is it Stubborness?
Is it Anger?
Is it Bitterness?
While all may be valid, no answer comes to mind, but I'd have to guess,
if it were anything, that it is a search for meaning through a battle against futility,
that there is a great nobility in continuing to fight against a certainty
that one's words shall never mean a thing.
So.
I.
Write.