Lines,
Fused together,
To make symbols and characters,
That carry meanings,
Expresses feelings.
Defines the essence of emotions.

Words,
Flow gracefully from the hand,
That writes passionately with the pen,
But has no control whatsoever,
On the world now or forever.
The man, he writes on.

Why do you write, oh writer?
Can it be that fame and fortune,
Is what you are after?
Is that not the want of every man?
To be rich and renowned throughout the land.

Words may or may not, make the world better,
But when it touches the lives of one man and another,
That is my opinion, on what makes writing matter.

So here I continue,
To pit purple prose,
Against aesthetic subjects,
That cause endless rows.

Attempting to justify,
A meager existence,
Answering life's challenge,
Trying to make a difference.