An explanation or self examination

A lady asks me why I speak in seasons
The reasons why my lines are ever changing
First flighty like autumn like footsteps on crushed leaves
Grounded yet forgotten as soon as the foot leaves
Like winter so icy so cold as the tundras
Of emotions enticing to no one but "me"
You can't communicate it yet you just elate it 
To such high magnificence yet it never brings
A sense of serenity like spring does in green leaves
These are the poems you cannot write yet
You have still to falter, alter lines, visit altars
And pray to the muses and hope heaven to bring
Your own summer of sound and fury 
Abound in murmurs the whole world sings

I say exactly oh my lilting lady
There's so much for me to do as of yet
But I keep my heart open for the world to join in
And love and live in laughter like a child's glee
I pray that I can open up the earth sometime 
Cuddle up next to Gaia and listen to songs sung
By the merry mirth making man and his furry kin 
And at night look at the cosmos that tunes a tremulous thing
All the earth's a song that I wish to sing 

But what about the darkness within your soul she asks?
The fiery envy that looks at all who pass
With a twisted grin and a thirst for tyranny
You write these poems to be answered not for answering
You write these poems to feed the maggots in your soul
Planted by your mother who said- "You are more"
You write these poems as an affront to your father
Who left you a disaster with his words-"You can't control
What comes in the world, the waves are too strong
You should leave the water lest you want sand in your pockets."
And now that you've left them you think that life
Would bestow you a poem as apology for the strife
Of knowing not knowing whether you are any good
Whether you can weather life with a little line
And a rhyme that charms only a few
While the many cast an indifferent eye at you?

Oh lady why do you speak so murky?
She asks what do you know of poetry?
She says what do you know of pain?
She shouts why do you even sing again?
Your reasons are seasons they too shall pass 
Maybe you're better off chasing ass

I am- what I am I don't know
All I know is I feel a burgeoning in my soul 
To write a few lines with which I'll know 
Of hope or some small semblance of the matter
I know I'll never weather disaster 
I know I'll never be more than human 
But I'll try to make the world more humid
So minds like flowers will grow from this
Small line like vines will climb the abyss
Out of the chasm where silence exists
Or maybe I'll just get tired of the shit
And climb it myself and like Capaneus
Shout screams at the Olympians for being so putrid
Have lightning flung at me I'll throw back tenfold 
Do I write poetry for beauty or gold?
Why can't I have both? That's the heart of the matter
And when I die I'll leave a pretty body to be laughed at
Or reviled and the maggots be eaten as yachagumbas 
Or maybe I'll be forgotten won't that be a humbling 
Experience. As of yet I don't know it all
I just want to write a poem 
No, I want to write them all.

But what I want doesn't matter and we both know it
In the end I just want to be a better poet