Writing just to write, to get words out on the page.

Writing just to write, to still the voices in my brain.

"Write!" they say, again and again,
Yet they give no hint as to what should leave my pen.
Should it be poetry of love, hate, sorrow, or death?

Stories of passion perhaps, or of women scorned?

Maybe adventures in far off lands.

Maybe just words thrown out on the page.

Endless dribble alone will quiet the need.

But then what does that make me?