Why Write?

Why not?


These words are black teardrops on the white, white page,

The voice is croaking, harsh from crying, from laughing,

These eyes are tear-filled, mirth or pain.

The paint trickles down my face, black, black,

Black on white, white on black.

Criss-crossing zebra stripes on my cookie-cutter world.

Leopards gaze out from the spots of the eyes.

I lick my lips, bite my tongue, thinking of better days,

Of warm sunshine, with the scent of honey,

Of sweet grass, peach bite down and the juice oozing.

The pain is sudden, and I touch my lip.

The black is overshadowed by red.

The scarlet paints a target on my finger.

Copper is on fire in my mouth.

The tang choking, irresistible.

I swallow, breathe deep, swallow again,

Sucking slightly at the wound.

Salt and copper, tears and blood,

The most potent of poisons.

There is crimson on my bedsheets,

Black space in my mind,

And the copper begins to drain from my mouth.

What is, to write?

I have written; nay—I have spoken.

My voice inscribed with ink to paper.

Neither of us are lasting.

Black and white and red,

All together, all entangled,

Hidden by a word.