snow, snow, snow....

I am lacking any feeling of creativity as I sit here and stare at this blinking cursor.

I am weary with tired eyes though quitting is not an option
walking away is easy but not among the possibilites before me
I do not feel as though my writing here, required or not, makes me pretentious
nor do I think it is important enough for anyone else to read or seek out
I have often rambled on papers that will never be seen by any other eyes than mine,
most of those ramblings are just that... nonsense scratched onto paper
meant only to be seen, felt, experienced, and dispelled on the page.
I like to entertain the idea that I am a poet, and was once advised to claim the title
though I don't feel as though I or my words are worthy of such a title...
I write for a sense of making sense, sometimes with alliteration or imagery
sometimes not, sometimes there is something grand and meaning full and sometimes
there is nothing but letters arranged in a way that could only make sense to me
but I was told once that perhaps that is poetry too
maybe what it is that I have to say will fall on the ears or within sight of just
the person who needs them
maybe my words will never find another soul to whom they carry meaning,
but regardless of what is in the works for my arranged letters
I will not stop composing

I find that sometimes in the ramblings one can learn something more about themselves
... I also find that on occasion, I have looked back at my own words and seen nothing that
was not laughable.
but I do suppose that for now I will stop rambling and go home
g'night