The Poet Must Live

The poet in me died
Last night.

She was shot in the head
With a high caliber hand gun
And left to bleed out.

I found her curled up
In the farthest corner of my mind,
Tears leaking from unseeing eyes.

I pulled her into my arms,
And as I rocked her,
Whispering nonsensical words
Of apologies and promises,
She roused.

She stared at me
As though I was a stranger,
An unknown entity touching
Her person.

I wept soundlessly.

She refused to speak,
Instead she wrote
On the ground
With her index finger,
With her blood.

"For me to live,
You must write."

She then pointed
At a desk upon which
Sat a note pad and a pen.

That last gesture
Was too much for her,
And she fainted away.

I made my way to the desk.
As I sat, I felt a sense of
Peace, of coming home.

With pen in hand,
My mind filled with words
Fighting to be released,
To be written.

With each stroke of the pen,
The poet grew stronger.
The bullet popped out,
The wound healed,
The blood disappeared
And the poet came to.

I was so focused
On what I was writing
That I didn't notice
That the poet had approached
The desk.

It was only
When I felt her hands
On my shoulder that
I noticed that the poet was there,
And she whispered in my ear.

"When you don't write,
I die and when you write,
I live."

She placed the gun
On the desk next to the note pad
And walked away, fading away.

And so I write
So that the poet may live.


Submitted to Poets United and imaginary garden with real toads.