For My Sake of Writing

It would not have mattered if those words made any sense, Nor how I looked like a nervous fellow Speaking those words aloud, writing them down As long as those disturbing thoughts Freed from me, escaped me, gone So soon forgotten. When I write poems Or if they are poems at all, They're for my enjoyment Really. Critique all you want, They're oblivious to the eyes Like an evening streetwalker's silhouette Soon forgotten. Sometimes words aren't meant to be touched But to simply exist To ease the pain The writer's woe Equal to the vomit draft Of an angry letter Never to be sent. It's a mess Really. In writing this, This thing! What is this, What is This? Nevertheless it is here through the touches of the keyboard Words that don't really make any sense But are there Making me more of a nervous fellow So soon forgotten Really.