an old writer
i admired
drunk on whiskey
at the bar
told me once
when i was young
if you don’t write
every day
you’ll never be
a great writer
& if you write
every day
you might be
a great writer
& his words
slashed like
a utility knife
across my brain
& i braille scars
from that old
beautiful bastard
on those days
when i hit a wall
& then i pull out
the rickety chair
from the old desk
& jab the keys
hard lines forming
thick & raised
enough to trace
in the dark