Wherefore do I write poetry, you ask?

I am afraid my answer won't be clear.

But nonetheless I must attempt this task.

I guess I write my poems out of fear.


I fear I'm doing nothing with my time.

I fear that all my life will be for naught.

To waste a life is surely quite a crime

And so I make the best of what I've got.


My poetry stands testament to time

That I have spent creating something great.

With each alliteration, foot, and rhyme,

My art emerges, beautiful, ornate


Of my own reasons, I am not quite sure

Perhaps that's part of poetry's allure.


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