They ask me if I'm still doing the poetry thing
use words like "talent"
words like "gift"
someone gave me this gift
maybe it was God - it was God given
by the father, or my father
is was father given
thank him for these creative genes
thank someone
not me
this, these words, this stage,
it's all lucky
all chance
and gratitude
they want me to nod and agree
I won't nod or agree
I won't pretend
that writing is something that always flows naturally
like a smooth bowel movement
as if sometimes I sit down to take a sh**
and a poem comes out
as if I've never sat down to write a poem
and had absolute sh** come out
There are good and bad days
there are hundreds of drafts before this ‘good enough' hits the stage
there is missed sleep and skipped meals
hours that feel like minutes and minutes that feel like years
there are mountains of what I once thought were grand ideas
broken down into unusable rubble
there are doubts, there are fumbles,
there is lost confidence that takes time to recover
there is difficulty
in writing poetry
though it can be done from a desk
or a subway seat
with feet well rested,
with hands so clean
it is not
be any means
easy.
And if you think
that I got here
on talent or gifts
then here, I'll hand you everything
that isn't packaged with it,
here are my unclocked hours
here are my tired wrists
here are my tears
and you know what, I don't have time to go through the list
if you could just come back later,
pick it all up tonight,
I'm sorry, I'm just pretty busy...
I've got a poem to write.