This is the second poem like this. To see the first, ‘Blatant Babble,’ click here.
Am I dead when I cannot write? Did I stroke out? Are my feelings hurt? I can write. Shit! I can write drunk. I can always write! The haunting of the living, the thoughts, opinions, and feelings of others who may read my screed; so they bar me from my work, my art, my love. My inner say of séance. The ghosts of failure, the confusion of thought, the confessor imposter! The loss of muse; the stark naked strawness of boned-out creative nothingness. But, to fear bland boring blight? I can write. I’m physically mentally capable of stringing words with a good or bad mix into a pot or onto a page. I can write! I can always write; always, always, but not always write a win: my first Pulitzer. Needs work. Write words. I can write. Write?
©Bill Reynolds 12/20/2018
Look both ways, but life can only be written backwards.
Mind the gaps, they are spaces on your resume.
Is this all write right?
Our Literary Journey 
OK, Bill, I like this a lot. Some lines are pure poetry: “My inner say of séance. The ghosts of failure, the confusion of thought, the confessor imposter! The loss of muse; the stark naked strawness of boned-out creative nothingness.” Nice stuff!
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Thank you, Marilyn. I’m glad you like it.
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Wow! The emotion comes through in this poem, Bill. Damn good – one of your best!
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Thank you, Sue. “Wow” and “damn good” are highly prized accolades for me.
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Fills the gut of this writer. I like it.
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Good. I am glad you liked it, Kathrine.
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Word. That’s really good. Love it.
Some famous writer dude, I forget which one, said that if we don’t have time to read, we don’t have time to write. Lies. I write way more than I read. Writing is a need, reading a pleasure.
Love the photo at the header, too. SNOW. Where is my snow?
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