Somedays I think I’ll quit

and become a plumber

or a chef

or a florist

maybe writing just isn’t for me

Maybe I can arrange sweet peonies and yellow daisies better than I can arrange 26 letters

Or maybe I can unclog pipes better than I can write through a block

Or maybe I can prepare a 7-course meal better than I can prepare a poem for you to read

 

Then I am reminded at 3 am when the words are buzzing in my head, trapping themselves in my mouth, cutting my tongue like a razor blade, begging to be released on paper

That I am a writer

and there is nothing else out there for me

and there never was

or will be