I need not write.
My head doesn’t overflow
Spilling liquid thought out of my brimming brain bowl.
My mind doesn’t turn predatorial
Seeking words like rabbits, hunting sentences like deer.
My heart doesn’t feel protective,
Loving writing like a mother cat guarding newborn kittens.
For me, writing is taking a picture
I will never use or look at ever again,
But I feel obligated to record it
To make it real
To remember it.
My brain is a bookshelf.
Writing is running my hand across the spines,
Cataloguing and classifying,
Curating and coordinating.
There’s comfort in knowing
They’re all still there.
Sometimes I face great problems.
Problems unexpected and unyielding,
Problems testing my patience and will,
Problems identifying problems.
In this, writing does not help.
How could writing alleviate
My sadness sliding south?
How would writing ameliorate
My fury falling at the finish?
How should writing unweight
The pressure of potential perfection?
But when I am at rest, when I have no need to fight,
I curate my collection, and find some comfort when I write.
LASA
11