I promise not to hide pieces of thought under my bed
the way alcoholics hide their bottle behind curtains of denial.
And when verses flash before me and my hands
begin to crave for key strokes I vow to distract myself.
Perhaps I should confine myself to a rehab center or
better still seclude myself in a mountain,
to come out later like Moses or Buddha, after 40
days of reflections. And when found by soldiers,
searching for an explanation of my presence,
caught with books in hand I will confess:
I am here to heal myself, to stop writing poems.
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