I write, I pour out my angst,
My guts, my blood.
This is no way to earn a living
It is an opening of the heart
For no reason, but passion.
The need to create,
To let the energy flow.
Not because the world thinks it's worth a jot.
But because such outpouring
is beyond its creator’s control.
I do not ask myself why be creative?
I ask myself, how can I stop?
So judge not, if crap flows.
Or at times worthy insights emerge.
The need to pour
Oneself undiluted,
good or bad
Is a call to be alive
All must answer in their own way.
