Why do I write?

vacuum sealed thunder in can
to only flown be away
on flying little leaves
that land on sitting beatles.

fuck me ain't that a metaphor.

can you guess what it means
can I
can she or he, or books of people?
contemplaining all together
on the mystery and magic
of the syntax, of the word choice
a n d t h e s p a c i n g?
s p a c i n g .

what are words but fleeting thoughts
that can never be aligned
as properly, or perfectly envisioned?

why do I write.

let it be a statement.