The Dilemma

I want to be a writer
Write of things pictures can’t express,
Tell stories never before told,
Feel words melting across a page
Like butter over pancakes
I want to be a writer,
Smell ink and fresh notebooks
With pages so stiff they crack when bent,
Taste the desperation of hunting for
The perfect phrase, something that tastes an
Awful lot like the rustiness of blood
And the numbness of taste buds after too much coffee
I want to be a writer
See my name on the cover
Or perhaps a pseudonym if I feel mysterious
Sit scrawling in sidewalk cafes,
Fit worlds into rectangles of white,
Invent a few of my own
I want to be a writer
Turn the moon into a code for
Temptress,
Goddess,
Lover,
Lost one,
Illumination,
Hope,
Obsession,
Vanity,
Or emptiness
Probe minds and bodies with a pen tip,
Examine abstracts with a precision
Only an abstract like language can provide
I want to be a writer.

The trouble is, I have to start writing.





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