like the papers cluttering my floor which i both want to burn and let be

i used to say

that writing was bleeding
or breathing

but that's not quite right, 
now is it. 

the world is in monochrome
and i never want to fall in love

just want to drown myself in music, 
tap my hands to invisible rhythms

because writing isn't something to take for granted, 
not unconscious thought

it's dense and overly populated, 
viscous in my fingers, 
weighing my head down at night

i am a writer, 
and there is nothing but that

because my voice chokes
and my throat blocks

so this is all i have. 

and my writing is something 
intangible, 

like the weight of my cat on my chest, 
and city lights from a ferris wheel, 
and late nights tinged with the taste of champagne

i'm not old enough to be bitter, 
but i'm damn well young enough to try to drown it out

and every time i stare at my wall, 
i have the unfathomable urge to 
cover it with Post-Its. 

like the glass terrarium on my desk, 
i stare at the succulents through clear walls, 
and i have no wish to smash it. 

but what is it
that compels me to scribble words
and paste them onto the blank paint?

i'm not sure, 
but all i know is that 
writing must be cold-clear nights. 

there is nothing else. 

The End

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