Why do we write? Why do I write these words that I cannot stop from coming out of me? An airplane to make, a pancake to bake A war I've to fight, a life to live and make it all right There's so much to do. But why do I choose to write?
Maybe you'll read it maybe you won't. Maybe you care maybe you don't. Maybe I'll live maybe I'll die Maybe I'll make a **** and earn that apple pie. It seems I don't care for all that **** but Why don't I?
Why does one paint A classic work of quaint? Why does one dance While sober or in trance? And not make a car That'll take you too far? Or beg, burrow or steal than rediscovering the wheel?
Ah... I've asked too many questions by now For which I don't see the answers somehow. And I keep asking this question to myself Why do we write When this world is not right And I keep losing my fight? But I still want to write Though I need to keep quiet.