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Poem

Why do I write
I cannot not write, that is why
It is a compulsion
I wake up with a poem or a song spitting out of my mouth.
I jump out of my bed and hit the computer before the john
People in my family know when the keys are clicking,
Do not speak to me
Do not look at me
And above all else do not stop me
For once stopped,
I am in a pretty foul mood
Horrible to be around, for the end of the sentence I had in my
Mind which was perfect is gone forever

Many people tell me they want to write but there is no time.
I write in cars, in the grass, in the rain, waiting in a doctor's office
If I do not have paper I use a receipt, a menu, a Kleenex
I do not recommend the Kleenex, but if I am desperate enough,
I will. The trick is to not be too brutal with it.
There is no time to breathe.
There is no time to watch people.
There is no time to do a million things
But for me there is always time to write.
It comes oozing out of my pores, into my fingertips, and I 
Cannot stop it. 
Writing for me is like breathing.
It is my bliss, my talent, my therapy.
Not writing would be death for me.
Why would I choose that?

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