Why I Write

I write because 

my

heart

is like

a fussy newborn

that needs to be

swaddled

or fed

or tush-patted 

every hour

or so.

I can’t always figure out

what it wants

but I know it

wants

something

by the way that

it whimpers in the distance

or howls in the dark

like it was born into

the kingdom

of haunted houses.

And my instincts

no matter what time of day

or night it is,

always say

the same thing to me:

take care of it.

It needs you.

Since it has never learned

to  speak

we collaborate

my forever nascent heart

and I

through the ancient tongue

of subtext

where the intrinsic nature

of loss

and sadness

and regreat

grow like 

wildflowers

ready to be assiduously 

picked

and instinctively arranged

into a bouquet

or images

and pathos

whose 

pain

and unimaginable beauty

will finally be felt

once they have been

properly

assembled

in the maternal arms of

a vase.

During 

working hours

memories and cryptic

messages

are exchanged

like ground fire

triggered

by a siren song 

or the vision of

the gone girl 

gone

Which inspires us

to send off the dead

in the euphoric

rage of 

an eloquent eulogy 

whose

metaphors

and lies

are the ultimate

truth of any writer

and his 

trusty, heartfelt companion.

We go through this 

back and forth process

of self-mutilation

and rebirth

each and every day.

Reclaiming moments of life

like old wood

Without skipping a beat.

Even when we are not on speaking terms

(which always makes the work that much harder).

We find our way.

We negotiate.

We threaten.

We abandon.

And in the end, we always find our way back

to the keyboard.

Because this is what we do.

This is why I write.