When I

When I consider everything I write
Is thrown upon the wind to live or die
I see the pages blowing out of sight
And whisper them a fondly sad goodbye.
The minute's labor that I thus bid fly
Will never trouble anyone again
And as I think of that I wonder why
I chose to write at all. And yet my pen
Will not be still, although I know not when
Or if the words I write are ever read.
For if I did not write, I know that then
What I love best inside me would be dead.
And so though writing is but vanity
I toss the wind my words perpetually.