I Write, Why?

There was nowhere to go
but I whipped the horse anyway;
made it run
and bleed,
this steed I call my pen.

I wasn't speaking the truth.
There was no truth to be spoken!
The truth dwelt in silence
and I invoked words.
Words?
I drew from a dry well.

The ancient soul is but too young-
it is artless.
And here I paint pictures,
I design.
I wince with want 
of words!
I write
when it cannot be written.
I write, why?

Ride. Ride. Ride, they say.
But when I ride,
I feel like being ridden
by the beast instead.
Why must I saddle myself?

I write
when it cannot be written.
I write, why?