Part of me is afraid of what must happen
To all things. Last year it was Joe,
Who succumbed to Pulmonary Fibrosis.
This year, it might be Tessa.
Complications from
That fucking brain tumor.
People used to write great works
So that part of themselves would live on
forever.
I write, because it is like breathing. I must,
Otherwise I can’t survive.
I don’t give a shit if the words decay
Because all books fall apart after years
Of sitting on shelves, in boxes, in attics
Or even in dumpsters. What happened to
Your scheme of eternal life, then,
O Great Writer?
So what, if my medium is electrons on
Spinning discs, in server arrays, somewhere
In this collective memory we call the
internet?
Atoms also decay.
Servers die or get powered off.
I guess the real point is,
I should write because I need to
And not because I think
I’ll be carried off to Valhalla
someday.
Besides, between you and me,
We already know there’s no place
For shitty poetry writers
in Valhalla.
D.H. Lee
