Why do writers write?

Words flying out from fingertips, leading nowhere in particular.  I could dedicate it all to you, or dedicate to no one.  It's there because I willed it so, engraving it upon the pages.  I could burn these words, erase them, tear them...  They'd still never be gone.  Deep in the back of my mind, these words will forever live on.  
What makes these words come spewing out from my imagination?  I pin up my confused emotions for everyone and anyone (whichever one comes first) to read, to mock, to love, or hate.  Why should I yearn for praise on my absurd expression?  So should I douse the flames of passion for the simplicity of work?  I don't mind that someday I'll be entirely forgotten.  These words are purely mine, purely free, released from everything that is me.