I’m a writer I’m a writer

I’m a writer

I’m a writer

I don’t love anyone I just wrote down that someone(I) did

I am a writer and I wring you dry

I look at objects not because I need them

I secure them in a scene

I look at a pear

And think of lost love

I look at a bull and think

Of gored metaphors

I talk to my mother—-no.

I don’t talk. I hyper focus on

Only what I want to hear

Little tidbits of things I can

Use in my next set up scene

In my conversation between two lovelorn

Sad faces.

I’m a writer I’m a writer

I use up everyone’s stories and

Rewrite it and tweak it

And finesse it

And twist it

And wring it dry until

It’s black and white finished

Up, published.

I feel shame that my hearing goes off and on

With my loved ones

And they see me but I only see a green screen with

The most vivid creations

And they are you and me and all of us

In a new, scary, weird story

That I love and hate

imawriter

I wanna imagine a scary brown package from the Netherworld

But it’s just a package of clothing we ordered from Target.

I’m a writer.

I saw a film the other day. Ingmar Bergman’s Through a Glass, Darkly.

Karin, the troubled, mentally ill daughter, reunites with her aloof and emotionally distracted father.

He is a writer.

She sees her father’s journal.

It reads as a cold scientific exploration of his daughter’s progressive degeneration into madness, not as a concerned father—as one who wants to learn from it to write better. Not to empathize. To help his writing. He is fascinated by it, and equally horrified by his reaction to it.

To write better.

To

Write

Like someone without regrets ?

It made me want to vomit.

Is that what we do?

do we ever experience anything truly—-

Or are we merely obligated—-tormented

To detail pain—-painted and exacted with minute precision

And to live alone with our thoughts

Because if we truly told everyone these burning things inside——

They’d all run away?

Like Karin.

Poor Karin.

And then I look at cake at a bakery,

Thinking how to write about

Dying in an avalanche of chocolate induced peril

With indifferent lovers and adventure and fear

But I stop.

I buy the chocolate cake

And then I smash it in my face,

And I smash it in my words

A bloody shock

A good mess.