I write.

But Why?

Because I must?

I have to?

I want to?

I must, deep inside, have to want to.

I want not to write because I have to,

Yet I must write because I want to,

Yet I write with pen, key, pad, and spacebar.

I hate writing the most when I must write little,

Yet I Must want to write when I want to write much.

Now, when much is written, and little from me,  

Is it still poetry?

If written for no one yet everyone,

Or layered between that which is not me

That which is not human

That which can only see,

The words themselves and translate to action.

Not inspire, but cause.

Where once I wrote to uplift that most complicated machine,

Now I dictate to the most powerful,

Yet least imaginative.

Least want.

Because I want to do.

Writing is doing,  

Insofar as it is creating,

But I must write.

Yet I have to write.

Yet after writing to the machine,

I must write to myself.

Both in meter and constraint,

And both absolute.

One must be correct,

One must be perfect.

One must work,

One must do.

I am responsible for the machine,

Yet I am the writing.

Thus, I must have to write.

I must want to.

But I must make myself

Want to must have to write.