The smoke billowing
from my poetry journal
will descend back to the page
after I finish the poem.
Scribing that which burns
onto the page from my heart,
seared into immortality,
life is short, and memory is shorter.
What returns, is the desire to rile,
or reaching of that natural writer’s high.
Then I don’t want to stop writing,
I want to burn again.
When smoke descends, it again rises.
And I burn on, creating the unreal
and the yet seen. Words on fire!
Metaphors and imagery surreal!
Nothing is what it seems
when I’m high on writing.
Nothing beyond the page
has my attention.
Literally, I am in my own world
when I write. Creating
people and worlds
so vivid, so real-like.
With no reply from God when I pray,
I believe my written words
make me immortal.
Immortality! Bestowed upon myself!
With reply from my readers,
I believe my work will be read
long after I perish into the grave.
I cannot be young in the grave, however!
As long as writing keeps me alive,
keeping the suicidal ideation at bay,
no more wallowing thoughts
about having some ill-fate.
I now refuse to be wrecked!
If wrecked now, then what
was it all for? My poetry,
my stories, all would be forgotten!
I will grow stronger through expression
and be that author who tastes success!
I will never attempt to die again!
My work must be completed!
Burned into my memory
are the things that have been written.
One day there may be no memory of me
but from my written words. Words! Words!
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