It is not a want.
It is not a wish.
It’s simple.
A demon waiting
at the foot of your bed
to grab your ankles while you sleep.
It’s a gnat burrowing into your ear
and laying eggs behind the socket of your eye.
It’s sitting in your own lth for days,
staring at the shower across the room
while minutes become hours.
It’s six months since you’ve talked to your dad,
And whining like an infant to your lover
begging to be spit-shined
like a piece of silverware,
“I have given so much to the page,
please tell me I am not worthless.”
It is not a dеsire.
It is a clenched jaw and an aching back and a disposition to spitе everything around you.
To find the world not worthy of your words,
and to find yourself unworthy of the world.
It is towering arrogance that says,
“Let these passages be free
in an existence that will cherish and worship them.”
It is a terrible self-loathing
that sends your teeth sinking into your lips.
It’s a gut pushed out
and shoulders slumped
and a sneaking suspicion
that everything you see is altered through your gaze.
They cry,
“But I WANT to be a writer!”
And my head hangs.
You are asking to be shot square in the head.
You know not what you seek.
You ask for bleeding brains
and carnage that stains your pillowcase.
You ask for jelly
in the place of the cartilage in your spine.
You ask for kindness that is never returned.
You wish to burn alive
in the ame of a love unrequited.
It’s simple.
Write.