the writer

in a striped shirt i appear before you
i plead for your sacred touch
something that can forever free me
i don’t feel i ask for much

maybe some day
you will frill
in such a way
just for me

The poetry ran through his blood from his mind to his wrist to the ink to the paper. He wished and hoped and pleaded and yearned. His study stacked with hundreds of dollars of pages and thousands of words. Maybe some day the beauty of his writings would earn him a fraction of his spending, but that wasn’t his objective. He wrote and he wrote to try and expel these thoughts. Take them out of his mind via blood and ink. But his operations were not Ctrl+X Ctrl+V, but Ctrl+C Ctrl+V. And he couldn’t seem to find how to press the X key. The two, right next to each other, yet X was so unattainably far from C. So absolutely painfully far.

Travesty for his mind, a travesty he wished he never had but one he knows everything of except how to kill. His warm desk lamp stays on for countless hours, his pens die in countable hours. The mahogany desk, hard as it is, has deep etches in it. Sometimes the writer’s passion is so strong he hurts his trusty desk. Sometimes, his passion is so strong his forearms pump with blood, giving his anorexic frame a bit of mass. The coffee and the liquor and the grass and the tobacco all become one in the air. The sweat comes and goes. Comes when it is light out and he sleeps under his three weighted blankets and goes in the cool dark when he is bare on his chair.

The walls are full of little sticky notes. Remind him of his responsibilities. His reports due, his bills due, his car inspection due. But he ignores it all. It is all noise. The many colors become television static and the writings mean nothing to him. The art in his mind is his only concern. In a trance, aiming to reach nirvana. A meditation so esoteric and egotistical that will never reach him there. But he doesn’t know of another way. He doesn’t feel like trying another way. He just writes and writes and writes and writes and writes. His wrist bones have become dust, his eyes bloodshot, his mind obsessed. Through it all, he finds no peace, no relief. Not a tinge. Yet, he is determined. He does not realize it, he does not notice it, but somewhere deep his mind knows:
This will kill him.