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.