to be a writer
smother your
racing thoughts
until they break through
their breath
unable to be extinguished
by your doubting fear

to be a writer
is to stay awake
until the sun starts
breaking apart the darkness
at the edge
of the earth's seam
with an full page
of words
tangled
that you won't be able to read
when you wake up
at noon

to be a writer
is to think
not only for yourself
but for every character
locked in your soul
trying to reach out
for their thoughts
and words
to stretch across
the lined
expanse

to be a writer
is to think
for everyone else
you know
and form thought bubbles
and back stories
for the strangers
you meet on the street

to be a writer
is to see the beautiful
in the ugly
whispering
and the ugly
in the beautiful
screaming

to be a writer
is to become hypnotized
by the parts
of the people
we smile at
their eyes
the way their fingertips
trace the rim
of their coffee cup

to be a writer
is to dream
and remember
to dream
and forget
everything
we meant to say

to be a writer
is to read
a billion words
of a million
others
to memorize
the curve
of the pen in a sentence
the neat font
in a book
holding
so much emptiness
that it fills you

to be a writer
is to choose to drown
in doubt
because all the stories
you read
and right-
even if they aren't
real life-
aren't always nice

to be a writer
is to love words
and to hate them
love him
or her
and to hate
him
or her
found in seperate others
a cycle
of their ghosts
haunting us
like the time
slipping away
too fast

to be a writer
is to choose drowning
over living
just to see
the sunlight
flickering through the waves
and feel how the shadows
it's absence feels across your skin

to be a writer
is to always begin
but sometimes
leave the end

there was a storm
one day, in the middle of spring
it fell from the sky
to reach the warmth
beating
beneath him
like a race
against the sea

it fell pirouetting
in the wind
sent by the stars
to make themselves fall
shooting
for him to make a wish
to keep a secret
to come true

and they drove everyone
far and near
away from the sound
of a billion memories
locked in the glass
of the still sea

they fell across
the trees
that were bent from the weight of the words
waiting to be wept
by the sharpest sword
clutched in his aching
hands

his left hand
fingers entwined
around the hilt
trembled
poised
over a wanting page

waiting
as the rain fell
staining his skin
with the absence of the sun
the absence of the moon
the absence of his heart

had he wished
so long ago
for his heart to depart
he would still have his soul
to lose to the silence
beneath the waves
beneath the fingertips
grazing the silk of his lover

stopped
by her widest eyes
staring at the tattoo
on his skin
from the skies
stained
burnt
by a thousand falling stars
a thousand wishes
that were too cold
and too visible
to come true

she's a terrible
coward
writing letters
to put in long
brown paper envelopes
to say goodbye

yeah, you're beautiful
you're a dying star
you're just burning up

knowing
doesn't make you
wise
surviving
doesn't make you
brave
what makes
the man
are the things
he'll never quite
be

yeah, you're beautiful
you're a dying star
you're just burning up

loving
doesn't make you
kind
honesty
doesn't make you
true
what would've
made the difference
are the things
you'd never
do

yeah, you're beautiful
that's all you are
it's all you are.