I write nonsensically
Why must I write where it hurts?
It’s the price we pay, a happy writer never sells
Give us a tortured poet and they fly off the shelves.
Should I bide my time?
Wait and hope for someone to stab with a knife,
For my blood to soak into paper
And weave itself into something worthy of a Booker prize?
Sometimes I don’t want to write about the woes of the world
I want clouds to be clouds and stars to be stars and,
I want to write how many times I meet a stranger’s eye in one night,
And wonder if it’s enough
And wonder if their reflection are stars or tears.
Sometimes I want to write something
Something that no one has heard or…
The view of the sunset
The rays of the sun
The heat on my skin
The taste of blueberry smoke on my tongue.
Why should I care that the world is on fire when your hand is in mine?
I don’t want to write for the world at all
I want to immortalise the nights I wish I could have stayed in forever
The biting cold on my nose, my fingers, yet the sun was in my chest
The rush of water to dark to be seen
Running to an old friend who’s now a new stranger.
I don’t write to be remembered,
I write to remember.
