Writers write

Writers write. They write on Christmas and in church. On weddings, gatherings, and meetings. At your funeral – if you are lucky. Writers write. In full. Sometimes. And sometimes not, cause writing Is a grotesque manner of viewing Of thinking and pursuing Of seeing And acting. Writers write. On their birthdays and their weddings Special occasions and the toilet. In the hectic of downtown or the comfy grumbling of a thunderstorm. Quiet and sometimes fueled with drugs Writers write On paper. Or on skin, canvas, wooden surface, smartphones, phone booths, subway walls, and blank notebooks. Writers write Not because they choose to,  But because they just can’t help it. It’s nothing that was predisposed. Nothing that they loudly once proposed Moreover so quiet and silent That the world first didn’t notice. But for them.It was always there. Omnipresent. There was always ink in their hands and words on paper. It’s never for the sake of others That writer’s write. Writers write Just because. That’s what they do. Writers write.