Michelle Whalen

To write about 
is to honor. 

Too many people saying
Get over it!
It.

Get.
Over.
IT.

Self-inflicted amnesia.
Self-serving oblivion.

I have one favorite pen, but in three different colors.
I share none of them, but I present a metal-grated caddy full
of ‘peasant pens and eraser headed number two 	
pencils from the Burlington Historical Society to any 
guests, friends, or lovers who may also wish to write—
to clear their blubberous heads.

I write for the trivial—the feel of the ball point grinding its ink along the pulpy micro-fibers
in my very best printer paper.
I write for the meaningful—I want to inspire others to inspire others, because that is a drug,
and because I just want to help.

I want to get it all down and out, see it in print.
I want to move the pieces around, until I can make sense of it—
all the layers, time and space, and the overhead view;
the big picture is swooning.

I must write it all down before it all falls out.
I’m either insane or I have all the answers now.
I can see it all—the past,
the present, the future.

But why can’t they see it, too? And why couldn’t I see it before?
How is it that it all is so obvious now? As if this time is all time.
How did things get like this?
Back again on the rough side of the mobius strip.

I write because there is so much in my brain.
It weighs on me like chronic strain in my shoulders
and a burning pain anchoring itself
at the bottom of my sternum.

Humans are born with subliminal,
self-inflicted amnesia. We can’t be trusted—
for this reason, I write. Moments etched 
through time that can never dissipate, never change.

I write because words have power.
I write because feelings are not truly fleeting.