On the Nature of Writing—A Simple Rhyme
I write for me, not for thee
I write for me, in order to see
the things to which I might otherwise be blind
to rummage among ruins to see what I may find
I write not to create mystery,
nor to unravel history
not to fill my pockets with gold
or even have words for others to behold
because I write for me
when words scar a clean white page
like some tiny creatures released from a cage
I pause long enough to explore
why I opened their door
they were not asleep but only hiding
and when I allowed their silent gliding
I had to follow their puzzling trail
like they led to some great holy grail
And when I saw they did not end
but they like I could only pretend
I paused long enough to breathe
and finally to conceive
I write for me, and not for thee
so even if I don’t understand
the nature of this literary land
the words still keep walking
and my eyes keep stalking
the path I take for me,
but not for thee