Poetry is the soul, written in ink
You might as well ask me
Why do I breath, why do I think?
These words set my thoughts free
They are a state of mind, unleashed
A chance to hope, to inspire, to release
Melding ideas into rhythm and rhyme
All these thoughts finally given some peace
This is hardly a waste of my precious time
This thing you are questioning is my life
So in short I don’t do this for you, nor for them
Nor for recognition in a crowd full of strife
Poetry is the flower upon a stem
That pops out of the canvas of my life
Does that answer your question of ‘why’?