Why I Write

Why I Write

Just sitting her pensive, putting myself on the defensive.
Extensive thoughts peruse the mind:
The kind that make you choose sides
only there are more than two in whom do you confide?
I've tried and tried to look inside myself to put reality on the shelf
It’s just so hard to tell what of myself I should sell…
life just seems to move pell-mell never reaching heaven
always threatened by hell. Then a thought comes
and you break from your protective shell
look for someone to tell but nobody listens and sooner or later you fall.
It’s all the same, caught up in the game a lame duck, out of luck.
You lurk around in the muck of society and drop into depression,
each session a lesson in trying to get someone's attention,
but you must make money retire get pension
Materialistic commercialism drives people to make rash decisions,
trash the derision and throw out vision of peace and knowledge;
spend money on collage.
A set division in life from the romantics of all ages.
The pages will keep turning books will keep burning
As long as ideas are stifled and people stop learning.
Working for earning a living, no giving only taking, making enough
to keep the money tree shaking.
Only in writing can I do my fighting.
I am biting my lip igniting the tip of the match in my mind.
And I'll keep trying chewing my brain down to the rind
until I find a better existence
and show the importance
of matching my countenance to confidence
thru a constant cacophony
of words vowels and consonants.

3/21/99