They say I write too much
that I spend too much time
with my notebook and pen and
they tell me, “Words are not special”
especially not mine. They tell me
to find myself a respectable job
and to get my head out of the clouds.
They want to keep me rooted
to the earth even though it reeks of
my ancestor’s blood. Use your hands
to make a living. As if though
a beautifully written sentence
cannot cause your breath to catch,
the pulse to quicken. They
don’t understand an embrace
that can begin with the first lines
of a poem. They don’t see how
words—beautifully written words—
nourish the soul and make life
worth living. Or that a sentence
that practically sings can be as sweet
as the first kiss from a new lover.
The blood inside me boils feverishly
and when it begins to simmer
the blood flows from me through
the tip of my pen.
They tell me to stop writing,
that it’s a fool’s fancy to believe
that in a world of millions
my words can ever really matter.
They just don’t seem to understand
that passion unbottled becomes disease
and can slowly kill from within.
So I cannot keep these words bottled up
inside of me because surely it would be
the death of me
if I ever have to stop writing.
Peace & Love,
Cover of my last book of poems, Blues of a Love Junkie