As I write, I think to ask myself,
“What are all these things for?”

I have both a candle and a lighter,
Yet they are two islands split by paper,
And the pens, and the pencils, and the mouse,
And the long dead battery.
And I think to myself,
“What are all these things for?”

My computer and my notebook,
My markers, and a Tolkien.
A cup, a bowl, a spoon, a soul --
My soul, surrounded by things,
Without passion without reason…
Again I think to myself,
“What is anything for?”

Behind me lies the music, the notes and rhythm.
Ahead lays the work, paper, pencil, typing
Beyond lays the future, more of this?
Behind lies the past, melancholy memory.
So I think to myself, for myself,
“What am I for?”

Am I destined to be a hoarder or glutton?
Am I destined to be left behind, forgotten,
Like the candle and the lighter?
No! For the music still makes me smile,
Through it, my name will live on, if only a while.
For that music is what I am for.