Not because I must,
or because I am compelled
by some unseen force
like the devil nipping at my backside.
I used to write to expel emotion,
to coax forth whatever poison lingered
from the confusion of youth,
to purge whatever angst, anger, judgment
and torment could be vented
from a tortured soul onto paper.
I used to think that with all that disquietude shaken out,
I wouldn’t have much to say.
I was wrong.
Now I write because there is beauty in the world,
because, by nature, I contemplate
most everything I encounter.
I write because I love words,
have always loved them.
I love crafting and choosing just the right mot
to color my verbal canvas in particular hues.
I do not force writing,
do not demand it be undertaken daily.
Words simply appear when inspiration strikes,
when there is something to say.
I’d write if I never had an audience.
I don’t worry about publishing or being published.
I’ve a lifetime’s worth in stacks and files
if I cared to push something into print.
It’s not a priority.
Rather the day unfolds as it will, full
as I wish it to be like those carefully chosen words.
I choose instead of chase.
I ponder rather than wander.
Like a pentameter panther, I pace.