Carry On - Poem by William Baez
There is much to say about writing.
It's flow, it's words, it's jest.
I hate it with all my hate.
It's dissent and irreverence.
It's thinking upon what to say next.
It's gazing at an emotional sea.
From what drop can I pick? To flow the best that I may be entirely seen.
But seen in what? A metaphor, a play?
No, something that's even harder to say.
So I can be stared at, in the dreaded statue smile of a penitent hanging coldly from the noose.
So I can be gazed at, in the mirror-like tears of a father's illegitimate son freshly born from his whore.
And be lovingly looked upon, in the tomb of a rich man's grave where his young widow never visits, or lays down flowers.
Aw, but what is writing?
It's irreverence, it's a joke of words.
It's taking drinks in the midst of hell.
Sell what it must to get by.
While resting upon millions with a sigh.
At the end of the day, at life's day.
It's a curse that I wholeheartedly mistrust, but in which exercise I must.
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