Why I Write

Why I write

Why do I write?

Do I write?

I see.

The good, the bad,

The mundane, the fantastic

I see and I think.

And I write.

And things become a little clearer 

to me

So I write to understand.

And I write poetry. 

And I know I'm no Shelley.

I'm no Eliot. 

But I first found my love in he who showed me

that April is the cruelest month.

And through that decay gave me the light of hope

That I could once again find rebirth in the sacred month 

that is my life.

I write that I may one day 

be fit to study Eliot and Keats and Longfellow

And bring their minds to the minds

of those which I once was.

Of which I am now.