day 218: here comes the rain, do do-do-do, here comes the rain, and i say...

darkness black

stretches out
white flecks and streaks
mar the midnight
soft fluff covers it
rising higher and taller
but erupting with lightning
bring on

the storm.

day 217: afraid of the words / writers block.

if i die unpublished
make money off of me
use my words to fill
the shelves, between the bindings,
make them sell.

if i grow old and go insane
don't allow me to burn my words
because, not that i'm vain,
but i'm smart enough to see
they're important because
others can feel them--
it's not just me.

if i stop writing
don't yell at me
remind me that words
are unforgiving
but you'll forgive me
if i just pick up the freaking pen.

day 216: you're taught to raise your hand before you speak. turns out that's just a waste of time.

S T R E T C H
at the seams

B I N D I N G S
pages leave

D i s a p p e a r
like vapor

second
ALREADY GONE


Minute
not far behind it


T O D A Y
isn't a promise


it's a question
how will you make 
the world a better place


and what will you do
when it knocks you on your face?


question
you've already answered

[and you didn't even have to raise your hand]