The Writer

 

I have nothing to write really

Tonight, I don't feel that secret divinity

That seeps into my brains most nights

And writes for me

Drools memories onto the page

Unknown to me,

The writer

Tonight

I just feel slightly overwhelmed at how

I have before

I have become the writer

I have become your teary eyes and I have been your

Laughter

I have been inside your soul for a few brief moments of speculation

After

I've transformed myself from average everyday citizen

Who is content with the mundane schoolboy businessmen

Mentality

Mom dad sister brother friend

Sleep, eat, piss, s**t, wake up

Do it all again

Same old, same old, live-die

Mediocrity

Someone who is consistently satisfied with

Normal

But, when I become the writer

…It all disgusts me.

 

Sometimes I find my fingers

Typing up dreams and pain and laughter and blood and rapid

Heartbeats

And I wonder why I'm not always the

Writer

Sometimes I'm just the person in the back of the class

Taking notes

And making small talk about

Grades and numbers and professors and Wordsworth

When I am the writer,

I don't care for such things.

They become meaningless and the only thing I feel

Is an indescribable out-of-body type motion

Yeah, I know you don't believe me

All I know is that it has nothing to do with numbered pages and

Careers and

What's your GPA and how are you doing today?

 

I'm fine.

I have written words that came together to form

Sentences that morphed into

Poetry

That transformed into feelings

Shaking the soul

Words

That became tears

Eyes

That became changed after gazing at the

Page

Funny how

I never really cry when I write poetry

I usually just sit here

Listen to melody

Eat, chew, laugh a bit

Drink some

Dream some

When I become the writer,

Little troubles me.

 

Every now and then, I scream a bit inside my

 Writer head

And break things

With words

Inside my

Writer mind

But, I'm normally the kind of patient soul

The one in line at the A&P buying wheat bread

Staring in your face, pondering what your eyes tell me

And what kind of poetry you'd write if you were a poet

I'd rather fondle my thoughts in peace

Waiting for the words to flow naturally.

I don't like to force it.

Funny how

I wouldn't ever call myself a writer

Even though I write every night

After I have walked around a bit, playing the role of

Everyday woman who doesn't really have time for

Poetry