Why I Do This

I write to understand: 
Not myself, but others around me -- 
When I turn inward, I twist and twist 
Until I end up either in knots 
Or broken. 

So I look out to those available to me 
Of every age, type, and situation, 
And I seek to know their hearts: 
Our eyes are meant to see outward, 
And our souls to grow through contact. 

It doesn't make me feel better, 
But it is better to feel. 

Maybe we learn to appreciate, 
Maybe we learn to empathize. 
Maybe we seek to help, 
Maybe we seek a different viewpoint. 

This world is a trap 
These days are our playground 
This life is a tragedy 
These moments are all the beauty we have... 

But trapped in worrying about 
My own disappointments, I cannot 
See the world for the shadows I place
In front of my own eyes -- 

I write to understand 
What I can never know firsthand: 
What you feel, what he feels, 
How they feel, how she feels -- 
The furniture of the mind, 
The decor of the soul, 
Complete with the marks of spills and accidents, 
Things dropped, things lost, 
Pictures of people who've left this place, 
And hopes for better 

Always hopes 

For better

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