Why Is It That I Write?

Why is it that I write? Is it for me, or for others to see?

Do I scribble for performance, for an inside soliloquy?

Is it for music, or for fame, or simply to feel free?

Or maybe finding what it means to go out and just be?

Eloquence and words don't matter much when writing for myself

for wealth of knowledge or of language, I've lived with English all my life,

and yet it still confuses me, how many ways it fits together

what with catastrophes or cat apostrophes or wordplay far beyond my reach.

I want to find a way to get myself down onto paper

to make my setting into story, accurate but artful, still,

I still remember times when I would carry 'round my pad and pencil, when

I would use them to draw and scribble, but now I've given up the pictures

for words that spin their stories better than I could put lines for life.

Why is it that I write? Am I writing for a show?

Am I reaching for the depths of feelings that I wouldn't know?

Is it for pure romantic thoughts or something yet below?

For base emotions , heightened senses, something to bestow?

I haven't had a life of pain or constant inspiration.

It feels like writing anything is, sometimes, just pretentious

when I am lacking in the feelings or the struggles that I read

from other poets and from other writers that I liked, and still,

I owe it to myself to make some sense out of my day-to-day

routine and yet I've fallen out of touch with that whole spark of life,

but maybe if I guide myself onto this path and think some more

I'll finally make some meaning in this story, and my life, as well

as times when I am lost and spiraling with the fan that spins above.

So that's why I will write. I write to bide my time.

A silly page, all filled with lines, no meaning to the rhyme,

and yet it's all still packed with purpose, from nothing it's sublime,

and even if I find myself still thinking I'm not prime,

I'll write for writing, anyway, until my last bell chimes.