By John Buchanan - 
a.k.a "Gunslinger"

"With Every Drop of Ink"

Every drop of ink I use-
Is like a drop of blood.
A bit of essence of myself-
A seeming, endless flood.
Revealing secrets un-confessed-
Obligations yet un-met.
A glimpse into my inner parts.
Some don't care, and most forget.
A glimpse of what I might have been-
And many things I never was..
And yet I write, and write again..
Oh, tell me.. is there not a cause?
A cause! Why yes! To carve our names
Like children do on restroom walls-
Desiring but to leave a trace.
In life. before the Shadow calls.
Yet I am less, the more I write.
With loss of essence, we all shrink.
As blood from wrists, which have been slashed
We die with every drop of ink.

"The gift, the gift; the gift 'e gi'e us- to see oursel's as others see us". 
Robbie Burns

I suppose that it begins in the womb; the desire to be seen, to be noticed. From that first infantile kick, to that last wheezing breath of old age, man's one great goal in life is to be noticed. The foolish, dangerous, show-off stunts of youth, to the bull riders and stun jumpers of our day: these are all an effort to overcome the most dread of all foes: anonymity. Why do men climb mountains? The adage is, "Because it was there". Perhaps in part, but why tell some one you did it, if you only did it because it was there? The same applies to web writing; if we only wrote to express ourselves, then a spiral notebook in the solitude of our homes would meet the need. Of course, we know better, we must be seen, must be heard, must be noticed. I like praise as well as the next man, but even when I don't receive comments on my work I continue to post. Why? Because just like alley graffiti, merely knowing my scribble is there for someone to see, and maybe wonder about me, brings a measure of satisfaction. Just as the pioneers, who chiseled their names into Independence Rock, thought they've long been dust their names are still read, and wondered about.

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I had just written what I deemed the "last" of a number of "Traveler's Tales" and was sitting alone in my home in the wee hours of the morning. I was thinking to myself: "Why bother? It seems the more you write, the more trite your writing becomes. It is like commenting on poetry; there are only so many things that can be said, and only so many ways to say them After a while, every thing becomes blasé' and hollow sounding. The phrase always comes to mind, "To damn him with faint praise".

After I had written "With Every Drop of Ink", I saw that this was probably as close as I had ever come to saying what I actually wished to say. The hopelessness of actually putting in to words what you are actually feeling, when you aren't sure you're self. I considered the frustration of attempting to convey abstract thoughts, to portray indescribable emotion, to alliterate beauty, which the eye can scarcely comprehend. I've had several conflicting opinions of the piece, varying from disinterest to a raving commentary from a well-intentioned individual, who if the comment was truly an indication, could only be described as a functional illiterate.

Upon consideration, I decided that if self-sufficiency and satisfaction with self could be construed as healthy; then the prostitution of our emotions, thoughts, and innermost feelings for mere flattery had to be the unkindest fate of all. With every expose', every confessional, we become less of ourselves, and more of the public consciousness (which is laughable in itself).

In summation, I suppose it is only fair to say this is only my opinion, which are like noses but it did give me pause, and force me to delve into and question my own motives for doing what I do, and being what I am.

About this honor: One winning entry per issue is selected from the tens of thousands of posts of poetry and writing at Spyder's Poetry Empire by the Editor of E:Z and proprietor of S.P.E - Nancy Imelda Schafer. 

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