Friday, January 11, 2013


Tonight, the words aren’t there.  My head is thick
and strangely self-indulgent sad songs blare
throughout the bright cold room.  The floor is slick
with sudsy water sloshing ev’rywhere.

I do not want to mope.  I want to write.
But ev’ry word I’ve written now falls flat,
And pictures everywhere accost my sight.
“Oh, look at this—no, this!—now look at that!”

And I would just get up and pace a bit,
Except the floor’s so slick, I’d fall—fall flat
As words, tonight’s flat words—and so I sit.
I sit, but still I can’t sit still, for that

Is something that requires the space to move,
Like moving needs the force to just sit still.

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