You have to understand
I don't do this for me.
I don't do this for you or
Even for us.
I do this because I have to,
Because if I don't write and dream
And scheme and sit by
Clear rivers and streams putting words into spiral-bound notebooks,
I will die.
Don't worry, I'll still be around
Walking and talking
But my soul cannot, will not stand being a dusty attic of
Odds and under-appreciated ends,
A broken menagerie of witless thoughts
Not able to fly with only one wing
I need these words to live.
I need half-full notebooks and stanzas and
Scraps of rhythm and rhymes;
My blood runs inky black,
Full of midnight prowlings and
Pens on paper,
Pen, paper,
Pen glides on paper,
As smooth as black ribbons
Draped across the snow,
Black thread
Stitching up white silk.
The lines of words
Imprint themselves into my brain.
I breathe language,
Feel my heart beat with songs,
Dream in the rythm
Of poetry.
Eventually, the
Ink
Forces its way into my veins,
Carried throughout my body
So that I bleed
Ebony rain.
It infiltrates me
Until I am crying
Midnight tears.
My hearts pumps the
Unformed phrases around and
Around again
Until I dissolve,
Becoming a mirror of darkness
On the floor
To inspire another writer.
'Tis the fate of the poet:
To become one
With one's work
And dreams
And life
And soul.