... poetry, ...poem, ...poet

a poet responds to a want ad

Some days, we write just
to write. Like Wednesdays.
Wednesdays we write just
to write. There is no Muse.
Only words and ink and paper,
only there is no ink, and no
paper, we mark dents in electrons
to store the words we write
for the Hell of it on Wednesdays, but
other days, maybe a Tuesday we
write because we remember the
blood. All the blood. Stop
moving, and you’ll feel your
temples swell with it. With the backup
made when your heart closes for an instant.
Lu dup. It closes and pressure
builds. It builds everyday, and
when Muses feel amiable, we bleed
it out on Tuesdays. Or a Friday
if we remember that we write at all.
And why write? Because we cannot
sing. If we could, surely we would
choose to sing over writing. Who would
rather read than sing or listen?
There is no effort
in the ears. It is like snowfall. We will
never tire of sound, for even silence
has timbre. But reading is exhausting.
Reading is torture, and writing is
sadomasochism. We bleed when the
heart closes to approach death, but
never taste its Bitterness. To write
is to live, so we live, so we write. Not
always for inspiration. Not always
for anything. But if we have ever
heard a chord of silence, we know, too well
that sometimes, never on a Wednesday,
we write for everything.


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