to be a writer
smother your
racing thoughts
until they break through
their breath
unable to be extinguished
by your doubting fear

to be a writer
is to stay awake
until the sun starts
breaking apart the darkness
at the edge
of the earth's seam
with an full page
of words
tangled
that you won't be able to read
when you wake up
at noon

to be a writer
is to think
not only for yourself
but for every character
locked in your soul
trying to reach out
for their thoughts
and words
to stretch across
the lined
expanse

to be a writer
is to think
for everyone else
you know
and form thought bubbles
and back stories
for the strangers
you meet on the street

to be a writer
is to see the beautiful
in the ugly
whispering
and the ugly
in the beautiful
screaming

to be a writer
is to become hypnotized
by the parts
of the people
we smile at
their eyes
the way their fingertips
trace the rim
of their coffee cup

to be a writer
is to dream
and remember
to dream
and forget
everything
we meant to say

to be a writer
is to read
a billion words
of a million
others
to memorize
the curve
of the pen in a sentence
the neat font
in a book
holding
so much emptiness
that it fills you

to be a writer
is to choose to drown
in doubt
because all the stories
you read
and right-
even if they aren't
real life-
aren't always nice

to be a writer
is to love words
and to hate them
love him
or her
and to hate
him
or her
found in seperate others
a cycle
of their ghosts
haunting us
like the time
slipping away
too fast

to be a writer
is to choose drowning
over living
just to see
the sunlight
flickering through the waves
and feel how the shadows
it's absence feels across your skin

to be a writer
is to always begin
but sometimes
leave the end

And baby,
Ill apologize when you finally spot my flaws.
A little mole on my side,
The rough of my feet,
The divot in my jaw.
Youll say theyre nothing,
And you say youll love me more.
But will you?
Will you be able to,
When theres nothing left to adore?
Will you when you see
The invert of my hips,
The cracks on my lips?
The scars on my legs and shoulders,
The tears that turn to boulders?
A chunk of missing flesh in my left thigh,
The way my light breath can turn to a heavy sigh?
The already forming wrinkles,
The way that I cry,
And how my nose crinkles?
The sensitivity of my eyes,
The part of me that has already died?
My ability to stand tall,
How easy it is for me to break and fall?
When you realize all of this...
Will you still be here for the long haul?