Why a writer writes I will never know.

Though rich of me to even group my pitiful
expression with that of 'writing', whatever
I have thrown down on pages over the years
must have had some purpose, some reason for
existing, but having stopped writing for some
time the reasons for my words have disappeared
and I sit trying to throw my head at a piece
of paper and everything that comes out ends
up right in the waste basket.

Where it belongs.

But nonetheless it seems unnatural to give up,
to think rather than do, as anyone who has the
urge to write must do so because there are just
some thoughts that are better off not left
inside, some thoughts that look better written
down, thoughts that one feels have to be read.

Whatever they are.

Though perhaps not knowing why is the drive, the
push, the emptiness or the fullness of your soul
that begs to be dribbled down your chin into a
bubbly little mess of verse, prettied up with
similes and metaphors and stupid run-on sentences,
perhaps it is a 'somebody' that a writer writes
for, a lover or a friend or simply just a stranger.

Who it is probably doesn't matter.

Why a writer writes I will never know but thankfully
I will never be a writer or at the very least think
of myself as one so any of my baseless assumptions
will just meander on this ugly page until it catches
the eye of somebody, because I have a somebody,
a somebody who I have written for, but I do not write simply
for her because writing is a selfish act and writing
'for' somebody rather than 'to' them feels insipid
and contrary.

Whichever way you look at it.

Most of all an unwriter does not write so
much as spew, hence the occasional bouts
of 'wisdom' that pepper my confusion may alter
one's perspective about how truly awful a writer
I am, because I do not write to learn, I do not
write to express, and I most certainly do not
write because I can, I write to write and I
write just so somebody can read.

Whenever it is that she does.