I don’t always write
Sometimes I sit for hours and the thoughts grow sour
at the back of my throat and all I want to do is grab them
rip them out and slam them
onto the page in front of me but that page is
So I twiddle my thumbs
Light another cigarette
Walk around in circles
and pray that my roommates don’t hear me talking to myself.
I say to the mirror
Let the cursor write your life
So I guess I could turn my breast reduction into an abcd rhyme scheme or
use metaphors to explain my scare with STD’s because
Yes. I have been to cavernous depths of experience
and I nearly drowned myself in them but
i learned to float on water wings and to
pull myself up by strings gripped in my teeth but
that is not what this is about,
and those are poems I should definitely write but they’re not right
for right now.
This is about what’s coming next.
Everytime I sit at my desk the words get stuck here start here lost there
and I forget that
all of me is written by mistake
3 o’clock in the morning, surrounded by cigarette butts
tripping over smoky hands that grasp at my ankles as I try to run
towards an undefined point.
This is pages of crossed out words and arrows pointing to nowhere
italicized doubts that I breath into every journal
the lined pages of which both excite and disappoint me
This is writing about not knowing what to write about but
I’m still writing.