I write
For many reasons, but I am forcibly held by one
The gravity of this inspiration weighs me down and I sink
But only to the floating depths of imagination will I drown
It is not for love or respect, as that is not worth lifelong devotion
And the promise of a reward condemns any profundity
It is nor for passion of writing, as I do not wish to write when I do
It is simply my mind begging for a place to record its inner-workings
I cannot say if it is for the adoration of others as I rarely write with an audience in mind
I just write…
Through the fog of my influences I see clarity within one reason
I write for the world, for my surroundings, for that which has touched me
My writing is composed of odes and dedications
Though less obvious than most, it is out of respect
Not for, but out of respect which I do this
An appreciation of that which is taken for granted
An understanding that few notice the obvious
For this; I write.