Why I Write

Writing why I write is doomed
     to fail,                     doomed
     to improperly tell the true story,
                            tell the entire vista.
Can one speak a mountain range?
Yet, a poet tries to write one.
Can one tell an ocean?
     with its waves beating relentlessly on the shore?
Yet, a poet tries to write one.
Can one speak a tree?
     with its intricate bark climbing and clinging?
     with its leaves performing a unique dance in the wind?
Yet, a poet tries to write one.
Can one tell a house?
     with its nooks and crannies?
     with its weather-worn sides?
     with its endless memories and stories within?
Yet, a poet tries to write one.
Can one declare a person?
     with his insecurities and fears?
     with her strength and anger?
     with his regrets and his victories?
     with her dreams and her boredom?
But I must write me,
     lest my world be forgot.