The author actually wrote this poem
by a poorly lit candle light
because it blacked out in Sitio Basak
just five minutes before he started
to work motivated by the thought
that the effort in the act writing
is what makes a masterpiece great.
He could have actually gone to a place
where fluorescent bulbs were working
and where he can see the paper in a better light;
to a place where the shadows
are less darker and he
can write with ease.
Yet he did not go away from his table,
from his chair and his room
for his mind had pushed his hand
to push his pen to write: to press the ink
to scribble out the picture
of himself that night.
For if he went away from there
there might not be a struggling writer
sweating his palms and his temples
under the brightest light of the moment
trying to create himself in this dream
of words and sentences, of lines and verses
to put your thoughts in the midst
of a candle, a pen, a paper
and himself.
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