He said I could write
if I only had a bit more discipline and
if I only worked a bit more at it.
But that's just it:
I don't think a writer should
have to edit their words.
That's like asking me to edit my soul.
Would you ask me to check spelling on my feelings,
to count the rhyme and meter of my thoughts?
I think a writer is the sum
of what she can do flippantly,
the glory of the words spilled out
onto messy, coffee-stained napkins
and slid into a pocket for a better day.
Of what he can write quickly,
the honesty of the words
written with his fingertips
onto his lover's back.
These keystrokes are earnest,
and I tell you now-
I can write without
discipline and work.
I don't mind being no good, as long as I get the words out.
Share This Poem