This poem is about working.
You know the kind.

The white page.
The flow state.
Revising, revising.
The waking and the walking
(so much walking)

until something finally catches
and that collision of sounds

coalesce

sing

soar.

There is nothing like it. 

This poem is actually about writing.
It’s a poem about survival.
About feast and famine.

One year I was so far gone I hardly
wrote at all. When I finally did,
molasses sludged from my pen tip
instead of ink.

And yes, it’s dramatic, and no,
the world doesn’t actually need me
to put my particular words out there in it,
but I swear to God, it almost killed me.

So now I write to stay alive.

This poem is about staying alive.

No. This is about living.