Another Wasted Explanation

I will assume, for the sake of argument
that all was a great misunderstanding.
Oh la, for the sake of argument
I will assume that you believed
what you told yourself.
'A writer', I said, with no great weight
and you assumed it meant I wrote.
I'm not that type of scribe,
bookish and socially inept,
although I do have my moments
and have studied in great depth.
I am a writer who walks through fire,
spills his own blood,
aggravates the wounds provoked by desire,
and fears cauterization
lest I forget,
forget,
forget.
Like an elephant-headed son of a god
the pen only occupies one hand.
You see, I have no reason,
nor belief,
nor faith,
nor conceit;
I have only need;
the desire for self-immolation
at the altar of my own existance.
Why? You ask, again, obviously.
The why is not important, in fact
it is less than the how or the when;
but I wish to be a marty
to nothing but my own life,
simply so I can
be cause
and you, my love,
my effect.