Confession

We want to write, and write prolifically and profoundly, or scantily and satirically, or rhymingly and rhetorically, or in other ways, to keep our bearing at the helm of the little pride that there is in being able to skillfully string a few words, here and there. But the kind of writer that I am, I pick up the pen occasionally, just to give it a dry run, and sigh, only sometimes, at the fact at the ink is still perennial, thrifty, nevertheless, at the subtlest pulchritude the ink strains bring out, at the ends and edges of the writerliness, which, frugally, thrives with my essence, dipping and soaring, like mercury.

I wish I could write. And well.