illness makes illegible entries
in my private daily diary.
western medical wants me to erase those markings.
big pharma wants me to use plenty of whiteout
but keep purposefully writing.
religion wants me to learn to write
with the other hand.
memory wants me to keep this cursive diary
going forward, then read back to myself.
intuition will let me know what it means
when the timing is right.
my ego does not want to change pens
or hands or skip pages in the process.
maybe this writing is an encryption
that only my soul understands.
part of me doesn’t know
if this is a script, a story or a wanton screenplay
that I am dutifully daily in writing.
consciousness doesn’t want to read it at all
but self-consciousness lives to read on.
time seems to wander throughout
as if punctuation has lost its sense of function
or immediacy of need.
my emotions sometimes wish the ink used
was made of my own blood.
where the grip of the pen
that then meets the page itself
is where each new entry starts,
not knowing exactly where this is going to go.
my conscience feels for this book
as if it is a form of plagiarism,
as a skimming off the top
and a reductionism of the original content.
maybe I am just a ghost writer
that can never be adequately paid for my services.
as the editor also,
I have no guilt or sympathy
for what the words themselves do or say.
esthetically, the pen goes out for a stroll
and curiously, I watch and wonder from afar.
blessed to say
I have never experienced writer’s block,
ever to fathom . . .
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