What do you need to write?

Not a river-bed in front of your very eyes

floating with murky brown waters, a few strangers 

pretending like the whole word is in one small town
they have lived for many years without necessarily needing
to tap on one of its stories, regardless of how bad it is drafted
how well  it keeps character or name.

Not a muse that pretends to arrive from outside
of your body, like a vitamin melted swiftly in water
fizzing a little, smothering all hope of a better air
with a sense of dictation that needs no pens
comes for no money, disregards the entire need
to sleep, to think, to be at peace

Not another person telling you to do it
or not to do it, or taking you out to a cafe
old style with records that give the illusion of something
happening in another time perhaps,
or someone inviting you to a dance
like the world will still be alright with you not putting pen to paper

Not a style, a grammatical line that makes you think twice
an accent you have developed to blend in with
those who have aborted the idea of your very existence
before you had the chance to say your name 

free from grammatical errors
like it's a chant everyone should hear

this is what you need then, to start the act of murder
of words, of many tears and little food
of being: all you need is
a good seat, a pen and enough heartache.