A poem for poets

Poets who labor in obscurity write because they must.
Their very being cries out to put pen to paper.
Their bibles, textbooks, receipts, all covered with scribbled poetry,
Written while traveling, reading, pretending to listen.
Poets, writers who do it for trade, who have made a living with the written page -
Do they remember what it is to write for writing's sake?
Do they recall waking in the dark with an idea that must be hashed out?
I write because I must.
Ideas come to me as friends,
Stories that must be told,
Events and characters fully realized,
As if they have come into being without my knowledge and I am merely the scribe.
And yet, how I wish for writing to be my only occupation,
Do I not long for compensation for my work?
Am I no different from those who do write for money?
No, there is a difference;
They are the lucky few.