On Why I Write Poem by Matthew Holloway

Why is it that I write?
Is it so I don't go mad?
Some people find me a little strange
But I have openly accepted that way
of life, living, writing, toying with sanity
Madness itself could be art
A beautiful expression of a wild soul
unhinged and free to exist
perhaps in writing I suppress that
or embrace it, I fail to remember which
Are there little pieces of thoughts
Wicked and beautiful in contrast
To a wonderful backdrop of nothing
That enjoy such gamesmanship
why is it that I write?
all of this and more besides