Writing is a solitary endeavor.
Whether in your room or in a public space,
you are in your own head
creating worlds out of electrical impulses
and words.

Sure, you look outward.
You listen.
You even converse,
then take it all home with you,
or to the diner where you work,
your coffee going cold as you write.

Publishing is a social exercise.
What you wrote in private
becomes public. For a poet especially,
there are no secrets.

How do we navigate both worlds,
come to terms with the self’s two halves?