The Porcupine’s Quill

I write for you and for myself

and for no one else

not for money or for fame

or to impress those who don’t know me.
So I try to write the way I would speak,
if that were still possible—direct and true,
without false modesty or bravado.
Without fear of being misunderstood.

I want my poetry to be a windowpane,
a view through which you can see yourself clearly:

your strengths; your weaknesses. Your loneliness. Your joys.

Your anger—at injustice, at how things are, at those who hurt
   you.

Your struggles with self-esteem and self-loathing.

Your failures and disappointments; your griefs and losses;

your love affairs. The people in your life—family, friends,
   co-workers.

The places you’ve been and are going—places where you live;
   places where you’ve traveled;

places where you’ve never been.
The books you love and the ones you don’t like; the movies,
music and art that nourish you.
The things that make you feel alive or dead inside.

I write for myself, but I also write for you.

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