The Life of a Writer

the life of a writer is desire 
            i hammer into the page 
                        i make up my mind: the streetlight 

is not the moon, but anything can be
            made beautiful under the ease 
                        of my hammer 

i wish you could see that i write in blue ink
            the color of oceans & early mornings 
                        & everything is clear like 

tears rushing towards the chin 
            of my desire. i pen what i’m meant
                        to pen. how deep in love i am 

& how silly of me to spend all morning dreaming 
            about love & not expect my 
                        desire to set me free 

the knives of my fingers tap
            out the notion that if i turn the key 
                        it will unlock.

admittedly, i am foolish 
            about love—a simple yes excites me—
                        ’cause i know that all that i require will be met

like water meets the tongue. it’s scary
            desire, a small fan at my window in the summer, 
                        a booklight lighting the pages of my life