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?


Please, citizen;

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.



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