I don't know why the poems come out this way

I don't know why the poems come out this way.
I don't know why I write them out at all,
When many times I've learned they win me nothing,
They bring no solace to my troubled heart.

I don't know why I trouble with the work
Of turning verses or encoding ethics,
Of sharing lust and greed and want. Just what,
Pray tell, am I alive with music for?

For fame? Renown? Prestige? Or public office?
Will words win me the currency I need
To give what a man should to his family?

Will verse win me the woman that I've dreamt
Was lounged atop the green upright piano
Thumbing through a volume of Tagore?