writers are such inglorious bastards

writers are such inglorious bastards
poets are even more so

writing is the easy part,

it is good to have other-worldly ideals
and aspirations
to make do
get through the days and nights
sister sojourn and brother bloodbath,
eventual cemetery called earth

each and every scribbler, soundly invested in portraying anyone
other than the self buried under the avalanche of words
and lines, unlikely rewards
just punishers amid an arsenal of punishments
feeble attempts at self-manipulation to achieve a
holier-than-thou stance or romance

the crown of glory resting squarely on one's own
foibles and volition
acts
of self-defense
a vortex of energy curled up in a knot
lying in wait to be unleashed from one's own
malcontent
recapturing the joy of childhood's end
(there is no end)

I eat from the tree of knowledge and become
bitter fruit, resolute
the energy of life itself,
perplexity and complexity,
simply grand paradox
and hoax
horror and story
injustice and perfect love
astounding myself
alive

I know there is nothing else.

I am an inglorious bastard.  I write.