I held the pen
a little longer
than I usually do, today.
Struggling with the little voice
that says,
“It’s okay.
You don’t have to write today.”
I savour the thought.
Roll it around in my mind
and see if it has something,
something of substance.
Hollow promises
always come draped in succor.
Death, is a comforting hand.
The pen
might as well just be a snake, today.
If that’s the case,
I’ll pen this piece in venom,
because it’s not what I do
for any reason
other than being what I do.
Who I am.
The voice that says;
“Don’t write today.”
is the same voice that says;
“Rest”
when you must work,
“Take.”
when you must give,
“Sleep.”
when you must wake.
“Die.”
when you must keep fighting to live.
Fight to live
and living
is doing what you do,
being who you are
and setting yourself up
for the next day,
and the next day,
and the next day,
as we are fortunate enough
to get them.
The war in my head
every morning,
is a small price to pay
for the day.
I will rest
when the reaper
comes to harvest my soul.
Pick up the pen.
Pick up your life
and write something;
something of substance.
HG – 2018
