A friend once asked my why I was writing poetry. He was questioning not only me, but my intentions for a 2 page paper that I called a poem. I replied aesthetically, questioning his ability to question me, for he was incapable of keeping his feelings to himself of any artistic view, other than his own! So I immediately dismissed his remark and continued to write. As I wrote, the validity of his comment struck me! I had assumed he was being analytical for the sake of idiocy.
Why do I write what I write? Is it simply for the sake of writing? What a confounded waste of time! My words might as well be damned with the rest of my being. For what does it profit me if my vivacious spirit speaks uselessness? And if my words and their being, are themselves impotent, what more reason do I have to live than that of a rose that withered yesterday? I found myself refuting confession of my own words to galvanize my fragmented mind. And assuredly, I have reached my denouement. I write not for the sake of writing. I write for my incompetence maims me from vocalizing not only my emotions, but my ability to speak in general. I write to prove entity in my conscious.
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