Life is an abundance of questions
we each ask ourselves to somehow make life
easier to accept, livable at most.
What if, on some level,
I never wanted to write,
but words held a salve to wounds;
laid a pathway from torn heart to the page;
an emptying of a broken vessel.
Does it matter why I write?
Do we question the medicated ointment
used to fill a deep cut to make the scarring less?
Nope.
Does it matter why we love?
Do we question the gravity
keeping us grounded?
Nope.