I wonder
If we can really write the stories
About things
And places
We’ve never walked through
Can we write people into existence that we’ve never met?
Is it
“Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental”
Or is it
“Names have been changed to protect the innocent”
(And can you have it both ways, really?)
Because the way that I see it
The quickest advice to spill from the lips
Of anyone
For anyone
Who has ever wanted to put pen to paper
Is
Write what you know
You know?
It stands to reason then
The undeniable truth
That our words are colored by the lens of our experience
The people we’ve met
The journey we’ve walked
I wonder then
About the existence of fiction
Maybe closer to the truth is this
That every writing
From the fantastical to the sanguinary
Is laced with kernels of truth
The diaries of our pilgrimages
Veins pumping with canon
A nervous system of non-fiction
If every writing is non-fiction
I am so sorry
Because
I have read
More pain
Sprinkled on shelves of fiction
Than can be known
In Arial font
And Times New Roman
Size 12.5
And bound
Shipped
And stored
Collectively with all of us
Does that make times of testing easier to bear?
And easier to lift?
If we print them into straight lines
Neat pages
Tucked into backpacks and libraries
If it does
Then let me be a carpenter
Let me construct shelves
With space enough to hold
Every book
Every word
Every trial
I will keep them well
And in my keeping
May you be lifted up
Knowing that there does not exist
A burden
That you must ever bear alone