What am I writing for?

 

I find my writings buried deep;

beneath millions of verses-

phrased by people unknown;

leaving me crumpled and torn.

 

I stare at those neglected words

as my will burns down to ashes;

into the dirt, my thoughts downpour;

And I ask myself, 'What am I writing for?'

 

Is it for a chunk of money or fame?

 For a name or to be best in the game?

With the 'neither and nors' tied in loose knots,

I stumble upon my own thoughts.

When the ink stains the flawless white sheet

Amidst the stacks of strokes and curves, I discover

That my writings is all me; wild, natural and raw

And to be myself,  the words must flow.