Writing Is Never A Race Poem by RIC BASTASA

writing is never a race
no one minds who wins and loses
a true writer does not mind if there are laurels on his mind.

one writes because there is something inside you that blooms
and wilts and dies and grows
some seeds without names yet
some leaves serrated and veins protruding like pathways
to your sorrows and pains and joys and bliss
comets carrying their own tails, stars exploding in their own energies,
suns keeping themselves at the centers of their universes,
snakes molting on their seasons, cocoons turning into butterflies.

writing is a round ring without an end
no one quits, no one can, and if you say you quit,
you only quit for a day, for tomorrow when you wake up
your hands start to miss the keys again
your tongue filled with words, your heart filled with emotions
and there is no one in your house who can listen.

writing is such a bad neighbor. It is aloof and never thinks what others
think of him. It is self-sustaining and survives and thrives on its own.
Like the light of the sun, it never fails to shine. I mean, this inspiration to write.
It does not quit. It does not quench itself with all the waters of this world.
It is this insatiability that takes us all here.
It is this human nature with its incomplete divinity that keeps us writing.

it is this boat that sails towards infinity that keeps me always waiting.
I write because I am.

Quit and you lose the essence of your being.
I am telling you, when you quit, you accept the judgment of death.

The penalty is banishment.
I heard. Total annihilation.