To write dying 

How do you write under water?

Everything has become so electric and dogmatic. The slow climb of static building 

as you cross a carpeted room.

Like a kid
Approaching a coffin at a funeral. Your body of work there. But empty of life.
Or pond scum; water stripped of its currents.Without depth.

This is our work.
What can we write anymore. Or how to craft it. Is it safe? While the archers are on the wall?

Have the rules changed?
You go back and forth

Push for a persuasive essay 

Push for another soap box 

But our feet are made of clay
Maybe the craft is simply writing

Asking questions 



Just so long as we move forward

Turn the page.

Maybe we can just create.

One line. One sentence. 

Forget published 

Forget click bate. 

Make me turn the page. 

Seduce me. 

That’s what writing is saying.

Write dying.

What do you need to say?

A ballroom dancer, what’s the final dance?

Someone giving birth,finally able to drink, what’s the thirst?

The tools are in your hands.

Turn the page.


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