Writing

I will be someday, 

gone, 

that is. 

When I am, 

I hope the pine needles still grow thick 

covered thick 

with snow. 

Writing for me is like a river of words flowing out of me. 

Sometimes raging other times calm and slow. 

Other times it is as if the otters living in the river have built a dam. 

Blocking the flow, 

My muscles are tensing.

I need to move,

I need to leave this place.

My life is mundane. 

My life is slow-paced.

I need something to happen.

My hands are shaking.

I need to scratch,

I've never been a fan of Four-Letter Words,

never seen the need for profanity,

and thought swears showed a lack of self control,

Now, I haven't changed my mind

but four-letter words are more than curses,

Am I right?

No,

You’re not always right,

Just suck it up,

Or yell at me, fight!

Walking through an art museum, 

reading all the signs, 

try to trace back the thought process, 

paid parking's outta time, 

leave with paintings stuck inside my head,