If you were to look at me today
And ask why I write so
To you I'd likely say
I do not actually know
Do I write because I like to read?
Or is it for a boy?
Does poetry fill inside me
A wide, gaping void?
Do I put my pencil down to scratch
Out a simple tune?
Do I want to express how alone I feel
LIke I'm falling to ruin?
Do I set myself to a particular tone
Or am I freefalling to a neverending maze?
Can I catch myself before I hit
Bottom and am razed?
But the real reason, I suppose
Life slips away so quickly
More quickly than a wilting rose
I can't help but want to capture the moment
In a lovely little rhyme
I want to cherish each day, hour, second
Before, to live, I'm out of time
That is the reason, I reckon
For the time I spend
Sitting with my poem-book
Writing, for life is beginning to end
To set me free as an untethered kite
From the chains of time's unnerving mend
Is the reason I write