The Being of a Writer

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I like to leave. To stay is to bleed. And all I stayed to find is never so welcoming.

Where to be

To be.

Be a part?

Be complete?

Right here, the need to be  falls short of just being me.

Here, where I hesitate.

On state borders.

City lines.

Teetering on the urge to flee 'less turn to face the divine

All my insides.

 

I like to leave.

To stay is to bleed.

And all I stayed to find is never so welcoming. 

Like last night

You met me

And later messaged "were you there there?"

 

The life of a writer.

A face you can't remember.

Be that as it may, you say I'm hard to find.

Ok, but let me be.

 

Touch. 

That's what we're missing here.

What do you know of my skin?

That's what I wanted to find.

Find them within.

But touch is binding.

And I don't want to give my soul.

Not again.

No, I think I will forego this staying and bleeding

And eyes not recalling a face that ages or is as young as they're believing.

No, to be completely sure

I'm safer leaving.

Do you know the sound of foot steps repeating?

How they trail off in the distance with not much a feeling?

That is similar to the sound of my heart beating.

Maybe this is all that is to my being.

 

 

 

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