writing is safer, somehow
because my pen cannot stutter like my lips do,
and words get stuck in throats,
not fingertips, can’t stumble
on paper trails of blue lines
because writing is definite and clear
and no one can tell if i am crying
through written words alone
You accepted my weird sleeping habits and liked falling asleep to the sound of typing. You didn’t mind if we went to the same Chinese place every other night for a month and then never went back. You always finished my coffee when I couldn’t drink any more and understood my depression better then anyone.
Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid he is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar.
We are worth so much more