A Writer's Alias

What sad people writers must be.

We have the gift of being able to create life without having to spread our legs.

With our finger tips we create a world of our choosing

Where we can make anyone say anything;

Anything we ever wanted we can conceive,

Every possibility is ours.

And yet

Why are there so many tales of sorrow

Of heartbreak and pain?

We can create soulmates that live for eternity in each others’ loving arms

And instead we give them evil twins and earthquakes and epidemics

That pull and twist on the strength of their love 

Until the smooth suggestion of their stories

Become knotted in the chaos of their own demise.

Just because we can create doesn’t mean that we should destroy.

So why is a tale of sorrow part of the popular pathos, replacing the one of happiness?

Why must we demolish the sanctuaries we envisioned?

My guess, as a writer, the dutiful scribe of the wantings of society,

Is that as a collective, we are so masochistic,

So unwilling to believe in our own happy endings

That we can only relate to stories where sacrifice, sabotage and solitude succeed.

We have so wholly given up on our own potential for happiness,

That writers are forced to kill the utopias we created to save this world. 

Visionaries violating their visions in order to be seen at all.

But then again, we don’t birth the whole: just the skeleton.

It’s health subject to society’s.