Obsession

I learned that my writing is an obsession;
was, so informed, by a dear friend;
and I must tender a sincere confession;
I’ll likely continue it, to life’s end.

I must admit that it’s a sobering thought;
I am simply wasting my life away:
rather than doing other things, I ought;
pretending I have something to say.

That I may be pretentious, or full of pride;
brings forth a sense of dread.
Consider that I might be attempting to hide;
my sense of my failures, instead.

I see nothing but emptiness, all around;
most sense of a purpose has passed;
a new reason for living, I have not found;
life without reason eludes my grasp.

Perhaps there are other things I could do;
visit the sick and read for the blind;
all restoring reason and a purpose, renew;
but, for writing, is how I’m designed.

Sharing thoughts with sisters and brothers;
has returned that purpose to me;
that my thoughts could help some others;
has given me someone to be.

I know I could do much more important things;
perusing my scrapbook, or reseeding the lawn;
but, as long as I feel what my writing brings;
I’ll waste away life, and write on.