I heard this poem many years ago and I think this part especially refects how I feel. How ever I disagree with the overall message of this poem. It says that only the chosen can write but I think anyone can be a writer if they work at it hard enough. Writting is hard. It takes so much of my time. But I also love it and I would wither away if I had to stop.

This is a part of Charles Bukowski's poem.

"unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was."

Four hundred feet off the ground on a wooden ladder was not the best location to discover Jamie had a fear of heights.

However, glancing down below at the sharply carved hollows along the rockface, it seemed harder and harder to ignore.

This was really high up.

Like, fatally high.

Refusing to glance down again, Jamie pushed upwards. The idea seemed a bit ludicrous, but better than up than down, right? At least going against gravity felt safer. Eventually there had to be a ledge or plateau.

Like a robot, Jamie's arms moved left then right, up and up the rungs. The ladder was secured only by two bolts on the top and two on the bottom, with cables running between for support. Geez. Two bolts? Surely that broke some kind of safety code.

The air felt thinner, even though four hundred feet technically didn't equate a lack of oxygen yet. Perhaps a panic attack coming on, or just natural vertigo then? Hmm. Neither option conducive to climbing further. Yet Jamie climbed.

The ladder gave way finally to the top of the cliffside adobe, the smooth rock finally providing a landing for Jamie's weary legs. At last. With a laugh, Jamie lay back and stared up at the Arizona sky.

Now - to get back down.

A haunting chant floated through the door as we pushed it open with a creak.

Inside, the giant image of a tortured man loomed on the wall.

And someone was feeding people… a body!???

I seized my friends’ arm. “What is this place?”

She smacked me. “A Catholic Church, silly.”

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” the knight cried. “Let down your hair!”

“Anything for you, handsome,” Rapunzel replied. She set to unbraiding her very, very, long hair. After two hours, she announced: “Done!”

The knight waited. When no golden locks descended, he added, “can you toss your hair down here?”

“Oh! Silly me. I’ll do that right away.” Down came the hair. The knight dutifully grabbed hold and ascended. Rapunzel screeched as the sudden weight yanked her out the window. The knight landed on his butt as Rapunzel crashed next to him. She did not survive the fall.

“Oh dear,” the knight said.