one, five, eight, nine

i wonder how i ever made it anywhere,

florescent lights blinking, 
streetlamps at night winking, 

it's as though the world stood still
and yet i did not

my hands, inkstained, 
tremble at the keyboard

funny how you can never tell
what someone will become

art is hard, i suppose. 
careful curve, ink blot. 

i am not good at it, 
but i continue to try, 
because i guess i must. 

but poetry, oh my. 
poetry is like coming home, 
like fitting hands around a warm mug

it is comfortable,
and though i am a very hit-and-miss poet, 
i'm okay with that. 

"If Atlas Fell In Love"
was a little line in another poem
and eventually it expanded to deserve it's own

yes, i am nothing special, 
i have no exceptional talent, 
but this helps. 

it helps me feel my blood 
thick and viscous, 
running through my veins like water

and at the time when i began writing, 
that was all i really needed.

The End

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