When I tell you I’m a writer,
is there a reason for the pity in your eyes?
Is it because you know that I bleed syllables,
or that I cry metaphors,
or that I breathe syntax?
Or do you think my words make me weak?
save your pity.
You see -- when I write,
I am Hermes; words are the wings on my feet.
Perhaps I become Saraswati
and on a different day Minerva
or [possibly] Apollo if I feel so inclined.
I explore my thoughts as Athena explored
the Phlegraean plane and the Triton river --
places mortals dare not venture
as are my words.
I fight along the battle lines of Justice and Truth
just as Athena and the Achaeans.
I adopt your stories [and transform them]
just as Athena took lonely Erichthonius as her own son.
I am in no need of your pity. My words are
the lightning escaping Zeus’ hands
or the trident carried by Poseidon.
I am Mnemosyne with my syntax
and my paragraphs are Hyperion to Erebus [an empty page].
My words are strong and my duty
is to share them.
If I do not
someone could very well falter to Hades --
to an underworld of ignorance.
This is why I write.