What It’s Like To Be A Writer

You’re waiting for poetry to spill from these lips,
sweet kisses like soft droplets of water.
I’ve nothing to offer.
These lying hands have retired their grip.
Drawn from wells of ink,
you feast, you don’t sip.
Douse the pages with gas, light a match
and pretend to read,
write another line like it’s the first time.
You don’t give a shit if the book can’t breathe!
But I carry the broken hands of the writer in my heart.
My soul and my lips never part.
I drew out my pain and you smeared it with dirt and solder—
lead in your lungs, down on your knees
begging me, “please, write another novel!”
You don’t know me.
Scatter my ashes among lonely trees, take another drink
look up to the Father,
affirm my sins like you’re more worthy than me.
What?
I’ve nothing to offer, but
sweet droplets of water,
broken hands around my heart, I can’t breathe.

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