Nepenthe

A poet writes, to be able to remember
that there lies an unfinished poem
on his desk, waiting to be completed,
as he sits on his pot, taking a shit;
a poet writes so that he can bear the
weight of food,
crashing against his oesophagus;
a poet writes to be able to
gather the strength, to walk down the
doctor's corridor, for a prostrate exam;
a poet writes to be able to open a
jar of pickles;
a poet writes so that he can stroll
in the park, and pick up leaves, knowing
that it is his job to do so;
a poet writes to be able to fuck;
a poet writes to be able to guide his glass
of whiskey, all the way to his mouth, and
gulp it all down knowing that
he would only be able to work better;
a poet writes to be able to make a pile
out of the empty lighters he is so
exhausted to refill;
a poet writes to be able to afford a
packet of ramen;
and his gastritis medications;
and his melatonin strips;
and his Vitamin B's;
and his apples;
and his condoms;
and his electrolytes;
the rest is useless.
A poet writes so that he is able to
stand above the body of the
cockroach he had squashed under his feet,
knowing that he has the power to
immortalise death;
and to have the courage to get a
root canal treatment; and also, a
cyst removal;
a poet writes to be able to read;
and to be able to
sleep; and digest; and yawn; and
stretch; and sneeze; and
clip his toenails; and blink;
and piss; and meditate; but most
importantly, a poet writes,
to be able to breathe.
And there is no one who can change that.