Why Do I Write

 

A compliment received,

the feeling that is is deserved escapes me.

I find nothing within

nor in my words that does not exist in all.

I've grown tired, as we all should be,

of what we see in this country

and the world in general.

Though there is kindness and respect

still spread widely across the globe,

it is the violence toward and hatred of others

that seems to have the loudest voice.

One tree may dwarf another,

yet they grow side by side.

Their leaves may appear different,

yet in the fall together they cover the forest floor

protecting their common roots during winter.

They are like those children of various colors

who play peacefully together

before they are taught hatred for their differences

How can they survive when the men of today,

the enemy of all things natural

continues to abuse all that is around him.

Why do I write?

Why do I share my words?

Do they make any difference to anyone?

Or are they simply written to remind myself,

serving no other purpose?