Why I Write

… on this blank page?
As it is inviting in its untainted nature;
Looking at it alone, one could not deduce
Even an ounce of incident-
Because at least in its cleanliness, it is unbiased.
(Does that deem me emotionally clean for the moment?)
Having tidied the monumental mess
Of having expressed my inner-self to others
In the past,
Now that I’m in the present,
I plan to,
In the future
Focus not so much catharsis as purpose in my craft
For it is as if the carotid artery has been slashed!
With each and every sentence put down with the intention of disclosure.
The results of incoherency, the carnage
Caused by half a million thoughts pouring forth all at once
Before their thinker falls back into sub-surface catatonia.
So
I seek to slowly stimulate this hibernating brain, that half-beating heart
For I know that when awakened, I am at least prolific
(If only I were not so pathetically poetic.)

I wrote this all in a semi-swoon, mid-afternoon on a Thursday
In a starkly-lit supermarket aisle,
Heart-palpitating in my chest and heart-shaped glasses on my head.
“I WRITE
BECAUSE
IT KEEPS ME UPRIGHT.”