Writers are sad people,
stewing in the acrid juices of their own guilt
and frustration and shame and impotence
hoping to turn up a spicy marinade or a fine wine at the end.
Writers are pathetic people,
who put their lives into deep freeze
from fear or distraction or misplaced notions of grandeur
to live vicariously through those who only exist in their imagination.
Writers are difficult people,
often moody, never consistent
flitting forever between the brutal compassion of undivided listening
and the cold precision of collecting material for their stories.
But writers are never lonely,
for who can can have the time to ponder one’s solitude
when the mind is an overflowing warehouse of ideas past sell-by date
and the heart, a valient but failing backup of fermenting emotion?
Our saviors, our jailers,
our muses, our burdens,
our poison, our panacea,
our steadfast, unshakeable, unbreakable companions,
Oh, those ideas!