I wrote this one last night.  It's how I was dealing with this compulsion, this madness to write and feeling there was no one left who wanted to see, read, listen.  I'd written all the the last half of the last line.  Not once today had I recalled it until when writing today's first one, I scrolled up a little and there it was.  I didn't read at that time, not until tonight when I finished the last line.  Do any of you deal with such as this?


Write, Write, Write
Virginia Salter

Write, write, write, that’s all I want to do!
Gripe, gripe, gripe, I want to write for you,

But you have heard enough of what I have to say.
You’d gladly put me on a ship and sail me far away.

Away where only echoes of what I’d fairly shout
could faintly be heard should you venture out.

Pen and pencil, crayon, marker are the tools of my trade;
paintbrush, too,  conveys my heart for your eyes I ‘tempt persuade.

Writing tools, writhing tools in the words they do display
thoughts and language muddled ‘bout, as ink and paint find their play.

Spinning, twirling, falling, rising, as do leaves in autumn’s gale.
Words are spread about perusing,  mastering a fancy tale.

© January 13, 2001