Wasted

Do you write for the thoughts in breach of conduct?

Or the dreams stumbling through the forest?

Do you write for the churned butter?

Or the lost cause?

Or the patient waiting in the courtyard for a pill?

Or the mood in the sanitarium?

Or the fans in the stadium holding their breaths?

Do you write for the guest in the lobby?

Or the actor in the scene?

Or do you write for yourself?

Do you?

Do you write?

Where are those piles of words?

The ones heaped on a restless landfill

Why do you write, my friend?

When will I hear your reason for this tense need?

Or do we wait until you dismount?

Do you know, or is all this wondering . . .

Wasted patience?

Just tell me

Why do you write?

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