Night Writing

This one seems to be about the fear of writing, or accepting that I could be a "writer." It's the struggle between a conventional vs. artistic life.

What am I to become, melancholy bird, poised beside the cliff, enamored by the fall; perhaps flight?  What if I become this thing, "myself," what then?  Will I have anything left to say?  I've put myself in an impossible position, purposefully.  Almost like I'm my own laughing god, knowledgeable of the fates, my future, my present.  I'm a wind-up toy that's winding down.  

I write at night, lonely at night, with headlights my companion.  

These midnight writings,

devoid of hope

desolate as the flat darkness

no sense non sense nothing real no perspective

flailing, groping, heavy eyes and heavy breathing.

I am truly become the washed up writer,

the Rimbaud mime,

minus the Nubian mistress.

Pity that my time as a free-wheeling poet was so short-lived, and not nearly free enough.  

So I remain on the edge, poised to fall into my computer, like a well.  There's no room for flight in these narrow chambers, and it swallows me, or part of me.  The rest is left in space, walking patterns in time, wearing a path from the couch

to the fridge

to the bathroom

and back again.

Author's Note

I write very late at night now, it makes me blunt and dulls my brain, almost drugged.

Reviews

[Patrick Davies]

Loved this poem. It spoke directly to me. I really like how you have picked up on certain details, like 'the fridge'. They wouldn't usually jump out. But at night, you've really singled them out, and I know exactly what you mean. Great read!

[melissa]

great writing :), good detail