the typical question
i get
when someone finds out
i write

is why.

what else is there?
i respond
with a quizzical look
painted on
my normally
scowling face.

some people
see the face of god
in the world around them
some see
inherent beauty
some people
see wonder.

i don’t see any of that.

i just see the world.

ugly
beauty
pain
love
normal
strange

you know?
the world.

the swollen sun
shining down
on the verdant land
on the dirty gray buildings
the polluted streams
the congested road
the dead
the dying
the young.

in my head
when someone asks
why i write

i want to ask them
why they don’t.

but i don’t.

sometimes,
i just smile and shrug.

i guess
i don’t know any better.

then i walk away
to stare
at the pregnant moon
wondering why
everyone doesn’t do it
as well.

i guess
the honest truth is
why not?