Writing

Spring is blooming 

around me, 

the trees flushing pink, 

the wildflower-shaped freckles 

scattered throughout the grass 

growing darker, brighter 

with the sun; 

Slowly,

I stand, 

simmering in the seraphic summer sun, softly

stammering silly sayings,

smiling at the shining sky.

Solemnly, 

I sit,

in the scenes of September, singing

Lying awake at midnight, watching as each blade of the fan spins around, one by one. My bed absorbs me as I think, "hey, maybe I should write something".

On the windowsill 

He sat, 

Staring at the sky, 

Writing words 

Known only in his head, 

Leaning against a reflection, 

Watching the moon, 

They told you to believe.

So you did. With all your heart.

And that heart betrayed you,

again and again,

so you beat it bloody

until it cowered

and you ran from it.

There are

So many things.

So many things

So many people

Want from me.

Is it too much to ask for a break?

Am I allowed to

Have a few seconds to myself or

Am I just a machine?