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  • Writer's pictureErin

the man with the clogged arteries.

Updated: Dec 4, 2022

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.


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


like the man with

the clogged arteries.

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