writing
fiction takes
a toll on me
as i contort
my brain into
the scenes
and the emotions
they need to convey

if i cannot
feel the weight
of the moment
how can i ever
expect the reader
to be swept away

writing
poetry gives
a brief peace
as i spill out
the knots in
my faulty brain
giving form to
these nagging
intangibilities

i don’t pretend
anyone reads them
these solitary
confessionals
which leaves me
free to bleed

all to often
i write about love
which burns both ways
lending depth to
the fiction
and longing into
the silence surrounding

i wish i were smarter
ignored these sweeping
novels where i cling tight
to agonizing memories
in remembering the softer
side of the emotional spectrum
when i tamp down those ideas
i can write all day long
and not have to be haunted
by the smiles gone to rot
whenever i close my eyes