POEM: Motivation (Hope*writer Challenge Day 8)

It strikes me now as I sit down to write

some ill-tempered thoughts about motivation

that blood is dripping from my knuckles

from a cut I got while attempting to open

a stubborn metal latch, which wouldn’t bother me

except it’s obscuring the print on the w key.

 

Hemingway would be thrilled.  Besides the fact

that my glass is empty, I’m heeding his advice

to the literal letter.  There’s nothing to writing,

 

he glibly intoned.  Just sit down at the typewriter and bleed.

But my finger smarts and I begin to wonder

if the advice of others would prove less painful.

 

Anais wrote to taste life twice.

Flannery wrote to know what to think.

Sylvia wrote to express her life but did it too well

for she ended up face down in a kitchen oven

having expressed every last thing that she had.

 

Orwell wrote to expose the lie.

Harper wrote to please herself.

And as for me, I would never presume

to insert my name among these greats

who I’ve called by name for we are friends

 

So I’ll just keeping dripping blood on my keys,

and murmuring the ballads of Pablo Neruda

because I know no other way than this.