I Write Because

Perhaps my words can hurt
At times when formed with pen.
Yet always it’s unknowing
And never with intent.
How can I hide my soul,
From the searching of my mind?
Or bridle a heart that's aching.
I place it in poetic rhyme.
No matter what the subject,
Lain before the world to see.
You must judge it all while knowing,
It may be only fantasy.
A poetic heart that's hidden,
Who could not exercise the verse.
Would equal being exiled,
Far worse than being cursed.
If I feel love and laughter,
Or experience pain or death.
I owe my feelings recompense,
I make payment on my debt.
Poetry in its pureness,
Raw feelings formed to be.
A sparkling climatic ending,
That's how poetry is for me.

by william mae

Comments (1)

A very eloquent account of what poetry means to you. I love this.