Artist.Warrior 04/13

Artist.Warrior
(Biography revisited)
When I read,
words weigh with ink
and I heave them across my mind
until my eyes feel like
biceps after too many push-ups;
and still, I read.
I read,
perusing every used shelf
and every library
as if my life depends on it,
b/c the wealth
is in the weathered pages
and not in the currency exchanged;
and still, I read.
I read,
so that when I speak
all you hear is the beauty of the journey,
crammed between irregular fonts
and and dead purple pens,
the stuff of real writers;
and still, I read.
I read,
selectively inspired,
perspiring purpose in places you'd rather not be
in order that poetry do more than decorate
a coffee table or sit discussed in an ivory tower;
and still, I read..
I write
when the words explode
beyond the reach of my fingertips
and my conscience creaks
from the rapture
of expression.
I write
to dis-spell the disparity
between image and authenticity.
My words are a greater window
into my soul
than my eyes will ever be.
I write
my voice,
etched in a collection of rarely shared notebooks
stacked neatly on my shelves
waiting for the gentle caress
of new fingertips.
Will you read?