On Writing...

because there is no one
you can trust now,
feeling so alone, and have no one to speak to
with honesty,
you have decided to befriend yourself
welcoming to the house of your body
your soul, your best friend now,
sharing bed with you, looking at the stars at night
with you,
and since the world is so silent
and sad
there is no choice but to talk to yourself
to the trees
the grass

and then your hands
become one big river with ten tributaries
all move towards your heart
your mouth

and from which
since then
writing begins...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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