Summing Up (Pretty Much) How Every Writer Actually Feels, with love

by Christos Polydorou

Every writer
in the world
is dead. I’m
the only writer
left, writing
everything.
Novels, film
scripts, art
icles on cats,
the British
Prime Minister’s
tweets, blurbs
on milk
cartons. I have
taken up
falconry,
embroidery,
illuminations
of holy
manuscripts,
painting with heavy
acryllics, and
clutter organization
in the name
research.
I have lost my
virginity, twice,
regained it,
thrice, and I still
can’t do the math,
but boy oh girl
oh boy oh girl,
pearl, toy,
unfurl, Goya,
so much to write
about, so little
time, so few lifetimes.
Sometimes even
though I am
the one
writing
I sincerely
feel like
I am a
character
in a book
called Christos
Polydorou
set sometime –
in the distant
however not
comfortably
distant –
future.
Of course
there is
no end.
This is
forever.

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