They write on Christmas and in church.
On weddings, gatherings, and meetings.
At your funeral – if you are lucky.
And sometimes not, cause writing
Is a grotesque manner of viewing
On their birthdays and their weddings
Special occasions and the toilet.
In the hectic of downtown or
the comfy grumbling of a thunderstorm.
Quiet and sometimes fueled with drugs
Or on skin, canvas, wooden surface, smartphones, phone booths, subway walls, and blank notebooks.
Not because they choose to,
But because they just can’t help it.
It’s nothing that was predisposed.
Nothing that they loudly once proposed
Moreover so quiet and silent
That the world first didn’t notice.
But for them.It was always there.
There was always ink in their hands and words on paper.
It’s never for the sake of others
That writer’s write.
That’s what they do.