Why do we write?

Why do I write these words that I cannot stop from coming out of me?
An airplane to make, a pancake to bake
A war I’ve to fight, a life to live and make it all right
There’s so much to do.
But why do I choose to write?

Maybe you’ll read it maybe won’t.
Maybe you care maybe you don’t.
Maybe I’ll live maybe I’ll die
Maybe I’ll make a kill and earn that apple pie.
It seems I don’t care for all that shit but Why don’t I?

Why does one paint
A classic work of quaint?
Why does one dance
While sober or in trance?
And not make a car
That’ll take you too far?
Or beg, burrow or steal
than rediscovering the wheel?

Ah… I’ve asked too many questions by now
For which I don’t see the answers somehow.
And I keep asking this question to myself
Why do we write
When this world is not right
And I keep losing my fight?
But I still want to write
Though I need to keep quiet.