To Write

You must choose a poison.
Hopefully it is the least deadly in your reach,
And the tendrils of your twisting family
Do not tie you to its sway.

A poet understands the softness in the sigh of a word
And foregoes the painter’s brush.

English can only do so much.
Take French, or better, Italian.
English is for those who like to challenge themselves.
That is,
If Beauty is your Endgame.

English is for those who can utilize the intricacies
And the artistic ramifications
In concealing one’s doubts and wrapping one’s fears
In a whirling blanket of powder and snow,
Of fonts on a page, neatly typed
And spaced,
Perfectly clean,
No smudges,
Not a line out of place,
Because not a one of us hurts inside.
Ennui is a French term
We borrowed
To distance ourselves from the scent.

You must fill your mind
To the brim
With shit you don’t want to know,
With rules that beg a beating,
Then strike them with a blow.

You must stagger
Under the weight of your own people
And taste their sweat as yours
And accept their sins as your own
And hate them
And hate you
Before clawing your way up
To something a little more agreeable to your frame.

You must dance with the things you fear the most.
Light many candles.
Know its breath.
Count the steps:
One two three and one two three and
Keep moving
Beyond all else,
For it is you who have chosen this,
You who have befriended this.
One missed step,
And the lights go out.

You must taste your sexuality
And fall in love
With her
And with yourself.
The hand that leads you to the darkness
Is yours.
Befriend it
Or it will betray you.