When you tell me that I am just a story I have written,
Whatever artistry or complexity you may accord,
Whatever dignity or freedom it may provide,
My Body still grandly signifies
From a grumble in my gut,
To the ends of my eyes,
That you have forgotten that we are alive.
I would not hold myself to be spoken,
No, let alone written, or even to be
Reasoned, or to be a person, not a belief
Or anything at all as given, but I am because of this
Still that Being that awoke with nothing
But a need for everything,
Asking for air, for warmth, for touch,
To feed, to feel no fear,
Still asking to be loved,
And to feel love for something else that is
So selfish, yet without selfishness now,
And to laugh at any of this being constructed,
Still to be giving from nothing
And from nothing being given,
That this striving from within,
This cry to be heard is not something I have written.
The Essex Writers Circle 