Just Always

I write because it is a need in me,

it has always been there unquestioningly.

The only thing that changes it is my inability

to get it out, to take the time to say it.

Not knowing what I would later come to know,

my own role in what I want to say.

You know, just write it, and worry later,

if it is good, worthwhile, interesting, or just okay.

Of course, I worry if it is good, or bad,

or if it makes me glad, or sad,

or if it looks good on the page, 

you know, appealing to the eye.

The way the words congregate together, 

dance, or just stand around, live or die.

And yes, I want people to read it,

and laugh, or cry, except mostly 

they will simply ask me why?

Which, of course is okay, but you know I’d rather,

hear them say, “this bit is good,” or 

“I liked what you did there.”

They are the best bits, for sure, but failing that,

I don’t really care, as I will go on writing,

as long as I am breathing air.

That much I know to be true and fair.