My job:

To write down everything for those of you who can’t.

I’m a scribe for the eyes who stare at blank pages,

with too much to say, but no words to say it.

They don’t come to me either,

but I’m a good cherry-picker,

stealing those too small and smashing them together,

to create the mirage of something celestial.

 

Sometimes I write for myself, because I need it.

Sometimes I write for you, because you need it too,

but don’t generate your sleepless thoughts like I do,

from mind to matter, in then out like the tide -

always present but predictable.

Your wanderings bring you to the brink,

so I pray for you,

and write for you,

that I could be your ocean of a thousand words.

Try each one one till one fits.

 

I breathe out ink.

Blackness in my lungs both malicious and meek.

Slides in as I swallow expectations,

and only comes out on paper.

Relief

you only get when you’re bleeding,

or breathing

at the top of a tower about to drop one hundred feet.

I take snapshots of adrenaline and save them under my pillow.

 

You are a tectonic plate, an airborne train,

and poems allow me to speak in metaphor,

just like your eyes do.

You know those are the window to your soul,

so let’s speak their language. I can translate.

That’s my job.  Translator of electric signals from your brain

that feel like one hundred watts, into words to combat the shock.

Tell me when you need me.

I’ll be here writing poetry.