writing is painful

you cannot write about that which you do not know.

then it must be true that there are more secrets in me than there are stars. there are more hushed voices and gentle caresses than summer sunrises.

and it must also be true that i weep ink and fold newspaper-lips shut. droplets run down my cheeks and onto my magazine glossed clothes. i dip my quill-pen fingertips into my pores, and i write.

i write on the tissue-paper dreams i once held and blow them away. i scribble maddeningly fast on my thighs. inkstain-stars whirl around my eyes. galaxies orbit my wrists. secrets keep my newspaper-lips shut.

my ink-blood runs dry, and i age. my ivory sheets are now yellowed with time, and my lungs become brittle, like parchment paper.

and still i write.

i write and i write and i write --

-- until i know no more...