Why I Write

I write because on December 1, 2095,

I will be 100 years old

And I’m hoping to God that in that span

I will accomplish great things,

Learn exactly who I am

And that from sea to tarnished sea

People will remember my name.

As a young,

Curly-haired girl

My kindly teachers begged

To keep my posters

And stories as well

I had a knack

For the world of words.

And it was fun for me.

Most often nowadays,

I find myself writing

For no reason at all.

Self-aware, I

scribble letters on a page

A fantastical product

Of creative genes

That are as rampant in my family

As children in the Brady Bunch.

At times,

I rack my mind for inspiration

Aimless thought ramblings

In the brain of a writer

Sometimes yield no fruit

Yet in spilling a glass of milk as I hurry

Thus dawns an idea

I shall document

This common happening.

Then, what prose I compose!

I write because I find our busy little world

Both comical and sad

Vaudeville and tragedy

Two traits which coincide

More often than is reasonable.

I daydream of the morning

When I overcome my laziness

And with writing

bring a smile

Or even a hint of hopeful brightness

To the melancholy faces

Of everyone.

If I could only lift the spirits

Of just one old farmer in Kentucky

With three kids and a bad back

Who’s just feeling down in the dumps

I would feel forever pleased.

I write because on December 1, 2095,

I will be 100 years old

And have learned exactly who I am.

Poet, scientist, actor?

Perhaps none of the three.

But if I inspired just one smile,

Nothing

Would make me happier.

In all sincerity.