The Life of a Writer

the life of a writer is desire
i hammer into the page
i make up my mind: the streetlight

is not the moon, but anything can be
made beautiful under the ease
of my hammer

i wish you could see that i write in blue ink
the color of oceans & early mornings
& everything is clear like

tears rushing towards the chin
of my desire. i pen what i’m meant
to pen. how deep in love i am

& how silly of me to spend all morning dreaming
about love & not expect my
desire to set me free

the knives of my fingers tap
out the notion that if i turn the key
it will unlock.

admittedly, i am foolish
about love—a simple yes excites me—
‘cause i know that all that i require will be met

like water meets the tongue. it’s scary
desire, a small fan at my window in the summer,
a booklight lighting the pages of my life