How the World Should Work

So many people ask me, why do you write?

Why do you do this? Why do you type?

Well, my good friends, I shall tell you all

I hope these words will echo, throughout his’trys hall

In life there are choices, there are roads that get split

Decisions that are forced, and fates that are writ

Purpose can allude us, more often than not

Yet once in awhile, life’s grand point is got

Back our steps go, the strides that are took

The biggest of pictures, at life we shall look

Writing’s mere method; a tool, nothing more

An outlet to open what was once a closed door

For each of us feels, and each of us thinks

We wiggle and wrestle, we iron the kinks

We want to know what, we want to know why

We want to know life will go on once we die

To answer, my friend, just why do I write?

It gives me a purpose and meaning at night

I know that my poems, my words, will live on

And that maybe you will know me; long after I’m gone