I write to remember and write to forget,
I write to break my bones and then write to make them set.
If this is a heresy
if this is my curse,
if words are what I carry within the casket in the hearse,
then let it be,
it could be worse,
this affliction can be knitted into another lonely verse.
I write to eat
I write to sleep
I have written bitten fingernails, of the squeakings in the night,
in the bedroom of all sorrows I have penned and taken fright, at the onset of a dawning in the melanoma day
I have taken up another quill and wrote my life away.
And now the ink is running dry,
perhaps in the congealing of the words
I find a healing,
it may be so.
© 2016, John Smallshaw.