If I was her I would be somewhere else. A marathon in front of where I am now and the path would not look so broken. I would know how to walk it without creasing at the knees, each time the ground shakes. I would be someone worth taking a chance on.
Today I wanted to be creative. I wanted the words to flow Four am wake ups from rogue ideas And conceded scribbles to bribe back sleep. I needed the clatter of keyboards Rattling my mind for the last drops Waiting for the final thunk of gold The smudges of ink that pulled a chapter whole. Instead I got the crumpled paper Of half hearted attempts to write. Jottings, notes and contradicting plots Which spin webs of confusion in my mind. Works that once seemed good Fractured beneath my own acid gaze. I’m supposed to be a writer Why can I not pin you down? Where’s my sledge hammer for this block? How do you bury my words so far beneath ground?