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’?