Untitled

Why do I write? To prove a point?
For therapy?
Do I believe a poets soul resides
inside of me?
And by this means may I
set it free.
Or it could be to share,
to cast their
eyes about as narrowly
as I see.
Do I write because the idea
is compelling?
What compelled me?
What dared me this belief?
Am I impersonating another
life?
Seen it on the silver screen
in between the lines
I read?
or dream?
what dream?!
To whom do I owe this feeling?
Am I feeling?
Am I  breathing?
What will I leave that
proves I breathed?
maybe a trace in the case of this
machine,
or the word of mouth of
those I leave.
I suppose
I just like how the sequence
goes.
Self-discovery
Regurgitating
what I know,
reminding me
of how I've grown.
Re-reading why I feel
and scrutinizing
the words I've chosen.

But maybe there doesn't
have to be a reason.
The indulgence of routine
sarcastically
giving meaning.
And the why is left to
conceiving,
infinitely variable machines.