Day in,

Day out.

Old news,

Old games.

One hears,

One listens,

But only some

Write.

Still beauty of nature in the cold,

The rushing wind in the fast moving city.

To some, it is nothing.

To others, it is a poem. 

To myself,

new thoughts,

new memories,

new ideas,

and new creations

run through my mind. 

Some good,

Some bad,

but always

an excellent poem.

Maybe, I think differently than the rest.

Maybe, my mind runs a different path.

Maybe, I can't express as others do.

Maybe, I just enjoy to write.

Why I write

is your question.

But why I write

is my answer.