Don’t be a Writer (Poem)

Don’t be a Writer

 

Don’t do it.

Don’t put yourself through this

You deserve better than this

Hear me now

Or you’ll find yourself

Up at five in the morning

Digging into yourself

Into your guts

In impossible ways

While the world

Is still asleep

 

Don’t be a writer

Don’t do this to yourself

Bukowski told you

Roth had warned you

Everyone warned you

Experience doesn’t add up

No two books are the same

It never gets easier

So save yourself the hurt

 

Be something else

Be an accountant

Be a gardener

Be a carpenter

Be something else

Anything else

Except a writer

 

And if you found yourself

laughing at this

Smiling at this,

Shaking your head lightly

Then you weren’t meant for it.

It’s fine

It’s good.

Get out now

Leave the room

This wasn’t meant for you

 

But if my words sparked an anger in you

A fire in you

A daring need to prove me wrong

That unnerving urge

To get on the page

To scream at me

Laugh at me

Lurch towards me

In defiance

Of all the gods

And men

Or simple me

Standing here

With such apparent vitriol

 

Then congratulations

 

You are it

You’ve done it

You are there for it

You will live

And die by it

You will lose your mind

And find your soul

One way or another

Until you know

The full meaning

Of the warning

 

“Don’t do it.”

 

Yet

When the years have come

Gone

And passed by

You and I

May know a moment

Of peace together

Over coffee

In a city somewhere

Lost in time

As the world

Has gone somewhere else

 

And

We will stand there

Alone

In the universe

 

Laughing.

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Fatherhood Moment

Family picnic at Lafontaine Parc.

Kids abound, around, all over the park. Couples are pushing strollers with two dogs on a leash next to them. Someone you don’t know is prepping the tables, two of them side by side. Friends of friends are unpacking the kids and some toys for everyone.

Kao’s in charge somewhere. Dee found herself a stick so she’s good for a good half hour. You sit and chill, talking with the other dads about work and beer and other things you don’t really care or know about but its all good.

Then you get to watch over the children on their way to the playground, stand at the entrance, the five of them following the leader around the monkey bars and slides, moving as a herd.

You hear the disant sound of cars over at Rachel street. Birds and leafs are moving in the wind, breeze is fresh and hoodies are on. Air is filled with the scent from someones coffee somewhere.

Life is good.

Saturday Morning on Masson Street.

Saturday Morning on Masson Street.

The sun is out and it’s spring again. You sit yourself at the corner table of a café, catch a conversation through the open window, busy street life everywhere.

You get a taste of bagel and coffee, shirt’s slightly open and you catch yourself smiling at your reflection in the computer screen.

Life is good here, life was good here, life will be good here again.

I had forgotten how many families were around, the booming energy of the place, well groomed dads and gorgeous moms crossing the street to catch up with some friends. A young girl jumps in the arms of a friend or an aunt and smiles are everywhere.

Heartfelt hug and “Oh my god. Look at you!”

A few words and then, “Where do you want to go?”

With so many options around it’s hard to say.

You put on your speakers and start to write. Not a second passes by before there’s someone to look at, styles and hairs and tattoos, you share a look, you give a smile and receive it back and feel good about it.

A tired man in track pants, 30 something, walks by, tired like no one else but looking smug and satisfied, tiny baby in a baby carrier snuggling close to him as a one track by flies on a red light in front of two cops that decided it best not to chase.

Not today! Weather’s too good.

You see kids and families and artists, hobos,dogs, punks, hipsters, bobos… everything. Life is beautiful here. Like a balance of everything this city has to offer.

Try to end this thing and you look up from the screen. Catch the glimpse of a smile in an old lady’s face as she’s dragging her red cart.

I think this is it, you think to yourself. There’s no end to what this place has to offer