Why do I write at all?
Am I just hungry for “likes”
Some unfulfilled neediness
and an uncomfortable desire for affirmation,
that I’m “a poet”

Or am I driven to write?
A cathartic purging of the soul.
A self-induced therapy to ease my pain,
searching for the key that unlocks my prison cell…
A lofty ambition: to unravel the human condition.

Or am I simply regurgitating
endless letters of complaint,
addressed to an absentee God.
Pointing out the glaring mistakes in his creation,
asking questions that I know will never be answered:
“Why are we here?”
“What is our purpose?”
“Why is there so much suffering?”

“Where are you?”

 

 

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