The call to be a writer is louder than anything I've ever heard.
I wanted control, so I wrote the words to a closed-off world,
And it made me difficult, invective to unbind,
For there were three of me,
Maybe plenty, maybe unreliable,
And they each all desire a conflicted completion, shared down to the ineffective spleen
Of the yogi booty that fits in a cup, rinses by the towelettes,
And novelettes all marked the red and grays of what-it-says-abouts, what-become-of-its,
Have so slowly, so occasionally down climbed.
He was a professional who could never love a mindset as unfixed as mine ...Read more