Purpose?

Why Poetry? she muses, sat in front of paper, staring blankly, lifelessly at her image.— and really…, who is she to ask the page—in a manner so blunt— to shoulder her excesses? such a stunt surely exceeds the bounds of decency; Soliciting a perfect effigy, she risks paying her Muses high affront.— Still, she dares,—and dares she bold and willing to strike strokes of black ink upon the white mirror challenging her to forgive— And here goes flying, now there goes spilling the blood of Artistry,—and Spite,—and Might,! Why Poetry?—or, better yet, why live?