Thoughts for the Chronic Somnambulist

Circulation
 

“Do you write poetry?” asked my friend.
I believed I did…  
In the shower and in the tub and while watching tv,
While reading, while sleeping, while snoring, while listening, while drinking
And standing and fighting and pacifying and eating.
 

Poetry, I have found, is in your blood and not your heart.
It is pumped through veins, breathes in life and exhales death,
Splatters on a page like vomit on pavement, glorious and relieving all at once!
Yet others look at your handiwork and find it disgusting and unsociable.
 

It is built of cells, some red some white.
It moves, circulates, encompasses, gets clogged up and then stops.
It is made an academic pursuit, riddled with names, categorised, made ugly and complicated,
Yet, after the essay is written, it remains untarnished, it’s meaning still hidden by God, the melody protected by the notes yet to be revealed, its mysteries still lost in words without definition, connotation or pentameter.  
A phenomenon understood by everyone and no one
Like crying and laughing, singing and screaming.
 

Do I write poetry?
My dear friend, no one writes poetry.
Poetry writes you.