In response to Charles Bukowski

You're a writer,

when the joy for writing is no longer.

Grueling hours before you—

Slicing of the words—

Chopping of the intriticate pieces—

Pestering in the heat, the broiling stove, of your office—

And yet,

you force yourself to finish.

You must,

not put it down.

Not even for a second.

To complete the once passion project.

Squeezed to a raisin.

The juice sucked until it’s bone dry.

Withered.

Crisp.

Concise.

Neatly presented to the editor.

Warmed in the oven. Smothered in cinnamon. Gooey. The forks of those hungry. Ready to eat it.

Then you’ll know.

You're a writer.

Fullfilling.

Because it transcends your selfishness,

need for validation.

To fill the stomachs of those…

who need,

more than you.

And,

as Charles Bukowski said,

it’s the only good fight there is.