A letter from the uninspired poet, carved
into wood
Write notonly when words crash
through your head like waves,
filling your lungs until you cough them
back to surface, still as themselves
but carrying your blood, a piece of your soul.
Write not
for admiring fingers
that sway like grass blades
or leeching arms that wave
when you force your breath upon them,
or for the scoffing ears of critics.
Write not
only for pain, or love, or to be heard
by selected persons, to be called perfect,
write not to receive mercy from
merciless worlds,
but Write always,
tunnel through stutters,
chisel through blockage
with the tip of your pen,
and if you bleed, leave a trail
so they will know how you came
to emerge, covered in proof
that the secret to freedom
is accepting and
overcoming discomfort.
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