Why do I have this urge so great
To pour out my heart into things I create,
Staring at the ceiling late in the night,
Searching the silence for the words I must write?
Why do I cling to heart ache so long,
'Till it spills into a painting, or becomes a sad song?
Why must I paint all my pain with a pen?
Why must I relive my hurt again and again?
Why do I waste hours on something so small
And still feel as though there isn't time enough at all
To finish the meaningless task set before me
To complete my work of art, to finish my story?
Why do I long to leave a mark upon the clay,
An insignificant speck to be trampled one day?
Why do I struggle to make beauty where there's nothing?
Why do I have this urge so great,
To create something?
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