in writer-time
i.
it’s 4 a.m. and i’ve been given the hour
to write, to write —
but why?
now 5 a.m., and i’ve been given the hour
to write, to write —
but why?
another day and week gone by,
another month, year,
then five —
i still don’t know — given the hours
and years — i write, i write, but
why.
ii.
it’s 4 a.m. and i’ve been given the hour —
another day, and another, and
another, then —
a message — corybantic,
without parsing semantics —
of gratitude and souls aligned:
thank you for both the ugly and fair
birthing word-children
who could have been mine.
iii.
it’s 5 a.m., it’s quiet, i write,
despair drains from my feet.
and i answer as i write, i answer as i write:
no, you mustn’t thank me —
i thank you for reading,
hearing, giving —
then i thank them for
showing me
my why.
iv.
now, no matter the hour given or spent —
i write, god help me, i write…
and i always remember yet never contest
what must remain inside:
through the in-betweens and without rest
long into dawn and night —
i will always ask —
for as long as i breathe —
and forever question why.
v.
so, to those who gave a few
moments or hours or days
of their time —
who finally, yet never
put to rest
this despairing doubt of mine —
i write through days, i write through dark,
and through moments
of tears and time:
this, this, this,
they — you.
are. why.
vi.
though i’m alone, you’re inside me —
allow me, please,
be your guide.
i write, i write,
i write, i write
i write of all that’s alive.
all that’s within
all the whats and who — all
that abides —
the few and many, the fallen;
those cast by
the wayside;
despairing but redeemed
within you, within me,
in short and in time.
and so
i write, i write
i write, i write
what you’ve asked me
to write
and why.
~j.a. carter-winward
