keep writing

sometimes

when my fingers don't itch to write

and the keyboard is a faraway memory, 

i curse myself

curse the world

because i feel like poetry is pointless.

why

do my hands know exactly how

to spin silken threads of words,

dew glittering in the sunlight?

why

does an ache appear in my ribs

when i ignore the tapestries i've woven,

focusing on the science fair, the math project, the anything else?

why do i feel like poetry is pointless

sometimes?

i may never know

but all i can do

is keep writing.