Giving Up (Or Not) (Poetry)

I could stop writing poems if
                                my hands were severed at the wrist
my eyes were closed — my ears stopped tight
all was dark — no chink of light
no whiff of perfume teased recall
my nerves grown numb — no sense at all.

I could (I think) stop writing lines
                                that come unasked — impress their
crimes
should every thought and feeling cease
and offer a complete release
from stimulus — the way words plead
to satisfy some inner need.

I could stop writing anytime
                                my brain gives up its singsong rhyme
forgets its rhythms — I’ll forgo
this black-on-white addictive show
and pension off my frantic pen
that fills the waiting page again.

I could stop writing if I tried
                                ignoring the shrill voice inside
insisting I at least take notes —
record each adjective that floats
and bossy verb and wilful noun
demanding I should write them down.

I will stop writing come the day
                                my earthly breath is sucked away
and all ideas are laid to rest —
no nagging muse to nudge or test
my patience. But — while ink’s still wet
the voice is clear ‘Not yet ... not yet...’