What the **** am I doing
Alone and zoned
Music playing to make noise in the background
The artful expression aiding me
To believe that I want to do something I have no intention of doing
Write, write, write
Why?
Why must I write?
How do I feel the feeling of needing to write?
All I know is I must write,
Is accidentally double clicking Word the sign
Or is my random outbreaks all combined
Is it the alcohol talking
Or my fingers ancey attitude
Either way words are coming out
Nonsense or not, people will say “wow, I liked it”
While in my head I say “you’re full of ****”
Who will be the one to say its garbage
And not because I wrote about my intentions,
But truly believe it is garbage,
This is not really a poem, its my mind releasing emotion through my finger tips
Is that so terrible?
Maybe another sip will have the answer,
Maybe two?
Where is this going, what does this mean
Why must I type?
Why must I be me?
Why must I feel to write
Who am I trying to please?
Me or society?
My friends will love me either way, my talents only increase their love
But is that the reason behind why people write
Or do they feel the words fall in place
Do they feel the art slip off the edge of their finger nails
Being a wordsmith is nearly a craft
As one must be able to adapt and shape words into places unseen
The unheard of is only what gets glory,
Those who receive it are recognized for their ability to truly be creative
Creative in a way no one has before,
But am I doing that right now?
Really at the end of the day this poem isn’t for anyone,
I’d shy from calling it a poem,
It’s a memoir for my memory from my mind
The mind that can’t sit still for further than 5 seconds,
Sue me