DO OTHER WRITERS FEEL IT TOO?
Writing isn’t a simple task
An art, it puts souls to an arduous dais
In search of a standing ovation
Or to draw strings from people’s hearts
It calls for a spineless heart and a skin as firm
As the hardest thing ever
Whether or not you feel it too
I would not say that I know.
A heart as soft as a babe’s buttocks
And a skin bereft of mortal touch
Who ever heard of that?
But a writer burning midnight oil, penning thoughts
Yet can’t wager a torn shirt
In the face of, one, favor of his piece
Or, two, a malodorous heap of hogwash
In a reader’s judgment.
You saw a thing it sought and found a place
It sagged and slumbered and was home
I turned and played, peed and felt warm
Then thinking myself fit for greater gain
I forged a voyage and set off again.
Even then she said, yet not with pain
That my way home I could always trace
The door will always give me way
But how long nine months had been!
And so at her chest I lounged to feed
And there still I shitted and peed
Till out of shame I climbed down, a fool
With a firm word I was set for school
In the stead of books she packed my food!
And said until I came she would wait at home.
Many a time it is I who left her mount
From the womb, her table, I now lost count
When I lost my head and carried the world’s weight
She stood at the door and said she would wait.
That any time apt I could always come home.
© Agnes Aineah
Image: Andy Roberts via Flickr