The Man Who Came To Write

What is writing to me?

It is both friend & enemy.

It is the di di mau,

the gun to the head.

It is the rescue chopper

flying over head.

Tortured, I scream

"Them damn rats

gone eat my legs."

Write

I wither as withered,

better to pen cripple

than to get bet on

with a 'volver to the head.

BOOM!

I am not (yet) dead.

Still I write,

I write

of being (when) dead.

BOOM!

I am not (no) dead.

Yes I write,

I write

of living a life

sentence.

For write do I do

'Tis the voice

I

may or may not have.

Just read these words

and learn me

and learn what life is seen

through the di di mau

now slowed down,

for it is written.

I write.

I am not yet dead.

So friend.

So enemy.

In my stead.

Exist beyond the simple touch of pen.

What is writing to me?

It is to live

beyond

being dead.

So friend.

So enemy.

Go on.

Eat my mind's legs.

Go ahead.

Rescue thought chopper

fly overhead.

Both matter not

for I write.

And it is written.

And it is written.

BOOM!

I am not (will never be) dead.