We write to breathe easier.
We write to save our souls
Not from judgement after death,
But from the daily self appraisals
Which furnish our literary orphanage.
We do not require reproach
From priest, parishioner
Or even a fellow citizen,
For our self-reproaches surpass
Any recrimination they might avail.
Our torment lies in the words unfound
Which dance deliciously in our minds
But degrade and demur when put to page.
When can we explain our visions which
We long to legitimize through universality?
Why do we care so much
To enshrine what we think we know
In a codified, inky utterance
Which likely will remain unread
As another untended, lonely epistle?
Most of us will languish
In the Middle Lands
Which lie between disdain and despair.
Mistaken by most for parvenus assuming airs,
Our intentions now the lost orphans of our striving.