It was a weekend off when, after dinner, I decided to head to the docks and the beach, one before the other, pen and two-dollar marble notebook in hand, to scribble out something decidedly beautiful. By the side of children playing and boat whistles blowing, I committed to the act of writing something and calling it poetry. Though narrative and long-winded, the meat of it had cadence; a rhythm. I used to be a drummer, now the kick boom affects my everything.
A friend of mine asked the other night why I do this, and why it matters; if anyone was listening. I don’t know, I replied to all his inquiries, before settling on an answer to the first two questions with a single thought: because it saves me.
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