I say “Write,”

But he cannot write.

He can think,

He can work,

I say “It’s about you,” “It is you,”

“You cannot be wrong.”

 But he doesn’t know if he’s right.

 For he,

 Cannot write.

And he knows that’s wrong.

 He cannot spell,

 And he doesn’t want to try.

 I say, “Spell,”

 “And later we’ll fix it,”

“It’ll be fine.”

I say, “Write about your skills,”

“Your dreams.”

He tells me he has none.

He really does believe,

That he has none.

I stop at this,

Confused,

 Not convinced.

I reward my ignorance.

Must there really be something he can do,

Which nobody else can do?

Of course, he too, wishes for this world –

That I refuse not to assume exists.

He must want dreams,

And a yellow-brick road.

But there is land,

Hundreds of miles south of that golden path.

And he is not sure,

That two steps in the right direction are worth the effort.

He thinks it may be better to get used to the forest,

And The Darkness,

Ruling over him.

It somehow seems efficient.

But two months later I receive an email from him that says “hey hows it goin”.

And if he ever asks me how far lost in the forest you can be,

I’ll remember the answer is: “half-way.”