Lonely Sailor

Someone said
A writer writes because he has
No choice.
That it's like breathing,
An involuntary response to
Holding a freshly sharpened pencil
Or sitting at a keyboard,
A disease.
Writers peck at immortality
Flirt with fame
But mostly must be focused on
The next elusive paycheck
From teaching or milking cows.
They write because it's what they do,
Hoping to corral large inspiration to convey small truths,
At best.
Writers yearn for a single gentle reader
Who will say she understands
Even if she doesn't.
Oh, poet,
Lonely sailor,
Lusting for a wind gust
Or a pod of dolphins to show the way.

© Poem Fix 2012
Photo: anoldent

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