This, the Written Page (poem)

Sometimes that is the last refuge.

That, the blank page.

I scribble and it is a linguistic sigh, a relief.

I write long and hard

And I am on the moon, beyond myself.

I write steady and true

And I am not a writer, but

I am being written, I am writing.

When I am insufferable to the world,

Thinking the world is insufferable,

I turn, one hand armed with the dagger pen,

And I scribble, scrawl, scrutinize.

Or fingers poised above the granite keyboard

I crack, click, clack

The cool, easy hours away.

 

It is like when lovers

Cease their sensuous tumble.

The breath returns at last,

my soul unsold!

Writing is a glorious, beautiful, happy affair.

(Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.)

It is an addiction to Self-transcendence.

When I am not a writer, I am being written.

I am writing, and sometimes,

I arise like a hero, head emptied, stomach starved,

Ready (and willing!) to rejoin society.

Because in my hands I wave

This, the written page.

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