Writing

I write longhand.

Journal, pencil, print.

Letters melding together in a harmony on the page.

Graphite scratching the paper, pencil sharpening every 5 minutes.

Lined paper, perfect for doodles and random thoughts.

I wake up under covers or chains,

Alone in a bed I didn't sleep in,

Clothes like a straight-jacket around my limbs,

My thoughts locked in the prison of my brain.

Outside it is snowing—a cotton cover,

This is not a political poem

It can’t be

Because I need hope

And I cannot find hope in such a divided world

I mean, look at us

Left versus right

There’s war in Europe, 

but this time the US has stopped selling guns,

Not to join in or contain the spread,

But to talk with the invaders,

Happy Birthday!

You know who you are, 

But thanks for another year of support,

Friendship,

And no trust issues (*cough* the other one *cough*),

Anyway,

You've been the best!

The red bike,

It just sits,

No one ever touches it,

No one ever claimed the bike,

After years in the park,

It lost some of its shine after tons of storms,

The rust comes and covers the beautiful paint,