Why do we write to appease all of this outrage?
Why do we infect the wounds through means of this written rampage?
It feels better like this I suppose.
I could very well self-destruct but instead I compose.

Why do we never write about something gleeful?
Why must we expose ourselves and prove so feeble?
I’ll write of joy when it announces its presence---
When joy can be everlasting and prove its pleasance.

Why don’t we write about the complexity of love?
Should I write of that again, it would be about the lack thereof.
With each address I make of that rousing emotion---
I must then smite it with heartache because that love is corrosive.

Why do we fight against the fury and stifle it between phrases?
Why must you insist that we are like all the other cases?
I am a living art, poetic, and attractive.
My emotions and my words are thus dangerously reactive.

Why do you deny that you are with a deadly mind as those within prison?
I have committed no manner of evil for all my crimes are all written.
I will take no cruelty against anyone in such a nature.
If I had I would not be poetic or appealing, only a failure.

Why do you claim yourself a poet?
Because I write with ferocity and motive.
Because only a few can project passion---
And walk away with a passive mind of extraordinary fashion.