i write to...

i write to know i'm not alone...

Nope.

I write to hear myself think
to live my life in the pages of a journal
to wander through each line
to sit on top of adjectives
to hide behind verbs
to form myself into an exclamation point
on page 263
as if it were my last page

I wrote when i saw rows and rows of corn on my drive to Owosso
crunchy golden corn husk
feathering the descended cloud mist
and with my chin to my shoulder i watched them
I sped by
and was surprised to see them
rows of them
chatting patiently with each other
making friends
corn friends
husk to husk

I wrote again when i saw my friend
who had given in to a familiar sin
status quo had eaten him alive
even though he appeared to be
well done

I wrote in my sleep last week
when i couldn't figure something out
but i did figure it out
and then woke to the smell of my wife at my side

sometimes...
by the time my head levatates each morning
i have had fourteen ideas
for explaining something with my pen
though i always forget my best brainchildren
like a preoccupied mother
and end up with those forgetful ones
the ones with red hair and such

BUT...
the best of the best
were only alive in MY head
and they made it out of my conscious
to the land of the sub-conscious
And they will swim
because that's what they do

I write my signature on things
because i am famous i guess
the mortgage companies
must be selling my autograph on ebay
becuase they request a new one each month
i know, i know
you "need it"for the "payment"
i understand how that "works"

I write the songs that make the whole world sing
and it's not even hard
just write a dumb line or two
one that gets everyone all worked up
one about life and those less fortunate
and you will get every tender heart gathered in one
big sappy crowd to sing "we are the world"
but when the song is over
they will change the channel
they will go home
they will not lift a finger
to do a thing around this place

I write out my anger
i lash it out more like
the pen is mightier than the sword
when you finally say what you mean
but don't really mean what you say

And lastly,
i write with a blade of grass
in the carpet of the earth
among the bugs and the caterpillars
they have lives too
and i explain theirs with words
I dip my proverbial pen in a puddle of rain
as they sit by and watch me write their lives
and they are thankful that someone cares
and they turn into butterflies for me
and wrap themselves up in cacoons to say "thank you"
and they rub their legs together...
and write the songs that make the whole world sing