On Being Pulled Back To The Page Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

"On Being Pulled Back to the Page"


I'm not sure why it happens this way—
the tug, the nudge, the quiet little
well, go on then
that shows up when I'm trying
to do anything else.
Maybe you know that feeling too:
the poem clearing its throat
in the next room,
waiting for me to stop pretending
I don't hear it.
And honestly, I've tried ignoring it.
I've tried saying
not now,
or
I'm tired,
or
let someone else write you today.
But that never works.
It only sits heavier.
So here I am again,
pen in hand,
wondering if this is discipline
or surrender
or just the strange duty
of being the one the words
keep choosing.
I tell myself I could refuse—
that nothing terrible would happen—
but even as I say it,
I know it isn't true.
Something in me would tilt,
go slightly off its hinge.
So I write.
Not because I'm wise,
or ready,
or even particularly inspired,
but because the moment arrived
and looked at me
as if I were the only door
it knew how to knock on.
And who am I
to leave it standing outside.




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