Writers are envious creatures.

They taste it all,

giving way to addiction

to substances most will never know.

 

Drugged on the smoke veiling human emotion,

they ignite flames with their fingers, and burn holes in paper.

With restless words,

sighing loudly.

 

Writers are lustful creatures.

Surrounded by hearts beating too noisily,

they cannot hear their own

dying one.

So they capture human sound in a bottle,

and pour it onto paper

in exchange for the false love of greedy eyes.

 

Writers are ebbing creatures

They flirt with life’s intimacy

and prostitute love in swirls of ink.

 

Until they bleed out

for all the people

who couldn’t taste the life themselves,

who couldn’t find the truth themselves,

who couldn’t write the words themselves.