right now it is 10 o’clock in the morning and i’m sitting in my room writing this poem or trying to write it so i switch on my lamp i open my window and the light just above me readjusts itself accordingly pen hits paper the ink guides my hand essentially moving just as i inhale and exhale blackness embedded on every line the priestess watches me from her deck speaking the words down my throat i think of how sweet the air smelled when i walked down that street when i walked in that shop what a beautiful morning we often share you saw the honeysuckle i saw the bees and i think to myself how could anyone think poetry is hard? i can do this i am doing this every movement of my hand so natural and right the paces between my body and pen similitanious separate from my mind a branch blocks my window and suddenly the ink slows to a halt the metal tip sinks its teeth in and dark black blood rushes out by hand is paralized by the grey deep shadow running along my now foreign page 27 ALIGN
leaves come in through the window rushing down and cloaking my hard cold hands the letters smudge across the page i run my finger along the lines to wipe the ink back into place quickly what was the name of that shop? the name of that street? the tower quickly draws my mind blank and dry the foundation finally breaks it’s sudden and scary and i cant fix it no matter how hard i try and what did i write? and where do i go? and poetry is hard and i hate it and i’m never doing this again and i’m sick of the cruel irony of remembrance they rush in like water out like mud a pushed hand or a hushed thought laborious to forget or remember, rather it is exhausting but a wind sneaks in whispering directions sending the leaves off my page i inhale and exhale the sweet smooth breeze white pages crisp with newness and i begin again
