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