i used to say
that writing was bleeding
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
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.