Three towers fallen,
the bear and tiger on alert.
Double headed eagle shot down,
with a single shot.
Sometimes I think I need to step aside,
relax, and let the words come as they may,
not coax them from the caves wherein they hide.
Another writer understands the pride
I feel when words come fast, light up my day.
I think, though, that I need to step aside,
and to allow them their wide berth, their slide
from visibility to sheaths of gray.
I won’t coax them from caves wherein they hide,
although I cannot easily abide
the fickleness of words and how they play
with my desire to write. I’d step aside
more gracefully if I knew they would ride
onto my screen and let me have my say.
They sometimes live in caves and need to hide
from all my yammering. I now confide
words’ power held over me, and so I stay
in my world waiting for my muse to stride
near: You no longer have to step aside.
Writing without being present to give
life to the words and sounds to the senses,
a child writing forever, through a sieve
of adulthood. Writing, no defences,
no beginning, no end. Explanation?
Should writer need ask for reason – enough
to say driven by some aberration
of gene, Muse or some other mystic stuff.
Not author not playwright not a poet
no description encompasses this drive
to express the very nature of it –
Better part of me writing to survive
than all those thoughts be stuck inside my head
and I be sad, unfulfilled till I’m dead.
Get up and at it
immediately as if
writing for my life.
Writing for your life?
Why is this so important?
Writing keeps me sane.
Writing keeps you sane?
Who would I be without it?
This is who I am.
This is who you are?
Then what are you doing here?
Get up and at it.