But May Happen to Be, Anyway

Some say they live to write, or
That they’re most alive, writing,
Or, conversely, that writing

Is painful, even a kind
Of dying, a foul salt mine,
Some monstrous landfill screaming

With gulls and nightmarish smells
Writers crawl across, baskets
Cutting into their shoulders

As they try to cull a few
Chunks, pick a few rags to keep
Themselves this side of dying

For real. And other writers
Occupy every small niche
Of attitude in between,

While about all they agree
To agree on is the need,
The compulsion, however

Pleasurable or painful,
To keep writing, to do it,
Whatever it is, again.

Well. That’s the lay of the land.

Just to be different, cheeky,
Salty, and full of yourself,
Dumb narcissist, you could play

The I’m-not-like-anyone,
Self-deluded braggart’s game—
No, you’re not only alive

When writing, and no, you’re not
Suffering, and you can’t say
For sure you’re in a flow state,

And once you lived a decade
Not bothering with writing,
And it was a good decade,

Hardly the worst of your life,
Yet you prefer to compose,
You find contentment, a way,

Watching lines fall into place,
In this way that’s not a way
You or anyone must be.