Why do we read and write poetry?
Why do I read and write poetry?
Why do I read and write?
Why do I write?
Simple question. It's good to start simple. Broad strokes. The details come later. Simple strokes leave the rest up in the air, open to hope and desire, interpretation, and a soft breeze from the east. Simple strokes can carry you out to sea, to that vast open of anything and everything. Possibility. Dreams. The care-free. They carry me the farthest.
Why do I write?
Simple question. Money? Ha, no. I laugh, mais non, there's no money in it for me. Money is in the details. In the greed and the need for acceptance and accolation. In the id and the ego. In a whoring of mediocrity and middle ground. In a straight-jacket passion. Confined and structured and pre-determined. That's where the money is, in a dollar-bill box.
So why do I write then.
Simple question.
I write for the feeling it gives me. In my fingers. It frees me. Oh, me! Oh, life! Alive! A line on and on and on. It keeps me living if for no other reason than there are things I need to write that I haven't written yet.
(you know, like an Apple ad)
