drinking hot green tea -
with a little sugar, a little honey,
while Sinatra quietly sings
from the record player.
me, myself, I
in my pajamas
wet hair from the shower
and my sides
clipped back.
a writer has two waves:
a wave of block,
nothing comes
and trying to sit in front of the computer
or scribble it out on paper
becomes a chore.
a wave of sparks,
everything becomes muse
becomes words
the words flow
they flow quicker than the stream
where we once skipped rocks.
I've come to realize
the more I call myself a writer
and write for reads
the words get blocked
like the artery of an over-weight
man who
loves bacon more than
he loves women -
which is more than
he loves life.
but when I read
for thirty-minute intervals,
and dance to Sinatra,
and burn my damn tongue on this tea,
the words flow.
suddenly,
quicker than I can realize
it's happening,
the words pour out of me
like the rain
from the summer storm cloud.
nothing is inspiring,
yet everything becomes
the outline.
I am the artist.
the page is my canvas.
art is selective
and can be interpreted in many different ways,
by many different people.
so why do I care
if someone reads my words?
it's not like this person will
read it in the way I intended,
or grasp it in the way
the next one does.
because nothing really matters in this world,
does it?
we're all gonna die soon.
we might as well write poetry,
and drink tea,
and listen to Frank.
because soon
we're all going to be buried
underground
like the man with
the clogged arteries.
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