Why I Write

Confessions themselves cannot be penalized, and kind words cannot be thanked. 


If I was asked why I write, I would not tell.

I would write about it.

Writing itself is immune, immortal--

it does not say, it means.

Were Claudius' words snatched out of thin air and shackled by the Royal Court?

Were Aucassin's caressed and kissed by the loving Nicolette?

Of course not--they were remembered.

Ideas never die.

They only grow with the ever-expanding heart of the universe;

and to write them down, to express them...is to leave a mark on eternity.     








This poem was excellent! I absolutely loved it! You dropped educated names, and you knew them and knew them well. This poem was great and I definitely will recommend it! Thank you for sending this in!


Sylvia Sexton

Thank you very much!

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