I woke up one morning
and It came out of me.
Thousands of word combinations,
oozing out.
All that had been lost or buried,
weeping down,
all over the page in front of me.
And when It dried
It forced me to see It.
And when I saw It
I couldn’t read It.
I left the room nauseous
and got sick in the kitchen.
And told myself,
“I will never write again.”

I go dark for months
like a Nordic country:
long. . .
periods. . .
of silence.
And I’ve tried not to write,
but it’s as if, the next poem is already out there,
coming towards me
from some great distance
softly; steadily
as if It were Female
gaining ground on me
circling me
closing in
until my spirit moves me to SNATCH It.

And when I do
It returns.

The writing always returns.


Poem by Ryan Anarchy

Artwork “I Still See The Shadows In My Room” by BNHA QUIRK IDEAS