My issue with blogging

Blogging...a phenomenon I'm yet to feel completely at ease with. Despite a passion for creative expression it's never been something I've liked to attach my name, let alone a face to, preferring anonymity...after all art is purely subjective and I find it obscure that someone who may barely know me, if at all, would take the slightest interest in anything I have to say.
For me, this blog is hopefully going to become somewhat of an online scrap book of sorts...a complete contradiction to my physical scrap book, the most personal and private entity I possess. It's for that reason that the concept of blogging, of releasing these thoughts, writings, photos or whatever into a totally public space becomes alien and some what confusing to me. The brain cannot help taking into account that there is now a potential audience...a reader, a critic, for whom I have edited and censored - an act I loath to do but cannot bring myself to restrain from.
Perhaps, as I aim to make this a more routine and regular practice, the paranoid and egotistical urges will wear and this may slowly start to genuinely resemble who I am in some way, shape or form. However, this in itself brings up an ever bigger question, am I seeking some sort of acceptance from the audience? Is it ok to think, feel and say these things I write in a public sphere? Why should I concern myself with their approval? I suppose that is where my understanding of what it means to blog becomes blurry...do you blog for yourself or for others? Personal satisfaction or social acceptance?
Again, these answers may only become clear as I attempt to construct my ideas and myself in cyber space.

Shake me like the breeze shakes the trees,
Shake free the leaves, leave them leave, leave them leave.
Leave reaves of grieving sentiment,
Cemented increment at the roots,
As certain as an owl that hoots,
Hell bent on picking fruits.
Heart heavy in your boots.
Weave tapestries of life on your suits:
Heave your arrow as it shoots.
Don't deceive the apple of my eye,
This isn't just pie in the sky.
Leave you bereaved like Burroughs as I die,
High on boredom of the mind,
Furrows the brow of the kin of your kind.
Find freedom in the blind
'See no evil!', wails of innocence pined.
These avenues are lined,
Trunks of history, encase the endless rings of mystery,
Chunks of love engraved and defined.
Refined letters of chiseled bark,
Harm the message enslaved by blood of the heart,
Inclined to follow as straight as a dart.
Love is a subjective art,
Reckless in part,
Where you ultimately end may be where you start.

Hong Kong Island

Some words what I wrote

Forbidden fruit is the most lush and delicious,
Flavour of lust is physically nutritious but not spiritually religious.
Consequences of indulgence turns brothers malicious,
Insistently suspicious, is this the truth or just fictitious?

As clear as the steamed up windows,
Like doors that open even though they read closed.
Lick your finger, figure out which way the wind blows.
God knows. Acting a Judas of new lows.