Wherefore do I write poetry, you ask?
I am afraid my answer won't be clear.
But nonetheless I must attempt this task.
I guess I write my poems out of fear.
I fear I'm doing nothing with my time.
I fear that all my life will be for naught.
To waste a life is surely quite a crime
And so I make the best of what I've got.
My poetry stands testament to time
That I have spent creating something great.
With each alliteration, foot, and rhyme,
My art emerges, beautiful, ornate
Of my own reasons, I am not quite sure
Perhaps that's part of poetry's allure.