I heard once that writing
is a sex tape—
recording the intimacy
of the writer and his words,
his words and the page,
the page and the pleasure,
the pleasure and the pain.
Writing is raw, natural
messy;
writing is shaky, scrappy
beauty;
writing is real, breathing
moving.
Writing is personal,
unpolished,
private;
intimate ideas
making moans
screaming silhouettes
on the white bed sheets
of the page
until the climax comes
action
falls
with exhaled punctuation,
and hands reaching to darken the camera
closing the page
in an exasperated dénouement…
Is it too forward
to ask you
to write with me
to make words with me
to have textual relations with me?
Clamor 