Why do i drink, because I’m a writer?
Because I need a good haze in which to find
The fuzzy ponderings of my scattered mind.
Why do I write, because I’m a drinker?
Because I need a fuzzy mind to dull the insanity
Of alliteration overload in my frontal lobe.
Which came first, the drinking or the writing?
As a child I was drunk on the experience of all
Life had to offer, not yet sullied by adult perspective.
I wrote then, small and true, and my words disturbed
The tall god-like beings of my tiny world.
So i sobered up, got with the programme.
I died, and did not return to my natural life
For an eon and a half, then suddenly
Waking in drunkeness I became reborn.
And I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote
Becoming soberer with each new day
Until I realised the two were not intertwined.
I again realised that experience was the drug
That created the haze of my thoughtful fruitfulness
And I lived, and I lived, and I lived.
Whilst still getting drunk sometimes. Just for good measure.
Clare McWilliams
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