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I think about it sometimes, about why I write poetry. "An Explanation for the Blind" and ""Inpiration" are two other poems that I have written about this topic. There are 3 reasons why I write poetry.

     1. Because I am trying to work something out in my own mind.

An example of this is the poem "The Flame Within." When I wrote that poem, I was attempting to get through a fight I had just had with my Mom and poetry was the only way I could work through that.

     2. Because I am trying to make a statement.

"Useless Apology" is a good example of this. I am strongly against abortion and wrote that poem to express that. The mental and emotion scars of abortion last much longer than any physical ones ever could and that is what I have attempted to communicate in that poem.

     3. Because if I don't let it out, I'll explode! :-)

Often, I will just become overwhelmed with the inspiration to write a poem and dash down to my computer, or as in one case wripped off a piece of a paper placemat, and start creating! The oddest things inspire me: dishing up ice cream, watching people, glancing out a window, ect.

No Apologies

Why do I write poetry?
I sometimes ask myself this question
And have even a poem attempting to answer it,
But I ask again: Why do I write poetry?
A friend once said to me,
"Poetry is our duty"
And I agree with him, for
One is obligated to attempt to imprint upon the world
One's soul,
And to recreate the visions one has seen.

But that does not answer my self-imposed inqiry
(As usual I tend to ramble)
I suppose the only answer is that
I could not stop writing any sooner than I could stop breathing
I frantically scribble down poetic words and fancy phrases
Like a crazed printer spits out
Page after page after page,
Unable to stop, and perhaps,
Not wanting too.

I do not claim that my poetry is good
For that is for you, the reader, to decide,
Though I am told by some that my work is,
I simply maintain that
Whether it be a literary masterpiece,
Or an embarressment,
Barely worthy of the tree that gave its life
That the piece might come alive,
I cannot help myself;
And therefor make no apologies.



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