seeking existence

if my brain could talk, it would
tell me to shut up. just be quiet
and not to think so hard, it hurts.
if my body were in shambles,
would i even know the difference?
arms and legs and stomach rumbling
like a train on the tracks, shaking
everything, disturb the comfort
of my peace. this is all a result
of being away from writing, being
apart from my life, not breathing
for what seems like years. it’s death,
this departure from my child, my
love being, the very heart that pumps
ink through my veins. slowly recuperating.
begging for more time to myself, a clear
representation of who i am in how
i spend the majority of my time (not
a bed, sleeping, watching mindless
entertainment that inspires me
to do nothing except eat because
i’m hungry; i want to be hungry
to write and never stop, to not eat
because i can’t break my fingers
from the keyboard, i can’t snap
the pencil from my hand, i can’t
dam the poetry rushing from my head),
and it’s all i can do to keep myself
quiet sometimes, not to shut
down and allow myself to get
trapped inside the world of work
i got myself into. it’s just a job. it’s
called a job for a reason. work for
a reason. clearly not to be creative
in my spare time. fuck. come home,
block it out, just be me for the next
however many hours it takes before
i’m forced back into a mindless existence.
i think now that if my brain really could
talk, it would tell me to write.