Dear Rilke, I must

Sanguine Choleric Melancholic Phlegmatic Phlegmatic Melancholic Choleric Sanguine Blood oranges And hibiscus tea White wine Carcrash memory Hypertensive He straps me down on the table This is for my own good. Too much blood they say, Too much red wine too much liquid Too much My hand is swollen My stomach distended The vein in my forehead is bulging Too much blood A needle A leech A pen Blood oranges White wine A needle is a leech is a pen Is what the doctor ordered He straps me to the desk This is for my own good A cure Too much blood Too much tea Too many memories Too many thoughts Hypertensive Sanguine They say They hand me the scalpel And show me the line Too much I’ve had too too much red wine To be doing this A pen a leech a needle A bucket of blood A novel Sanguine Melancholic Choleric Phlegmatic This is the cure This is for my own good Too much much blood They hand me the pen I’ve had too too many Blood oranges To be doing this A scalpel is a pen Is a leech is a needle A bucket of blood is a novel (Bleeding is the cure) I bleed.

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Written by

ariel-evangeline-baptista

For You?

Written by

ariel-evangeline-baptista

Published

Jul 19, 2015

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Notes: There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must", then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. - Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

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