Writing

Things are different.

I don't know when they changed

or when I noticed them changing.

But in any case,

my eyes are open now

and I see that things are upside down.

At first it was just a drop

Poetry is hard in the winter.

It is inexplicable but,

for me,

definitely true.

In the spring, summer, and fall, 

there are limitless possibilities, 

endless inspirations.

I could be writing right now

about fairytales;

princesses, and dragons,

magic, and the prince that comes to save her.

But life isn't a fairytale for anybody, 

so why write about them?

I sit down in the perfectly lined rows of old desks.

squeak, squeak, squeak.

He hands out the test, dragging his feet.

shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

Life. So many ways to describe it. Life is messy. Life is complicated. Life can kick you when you’re already down and spit in your face, telling you to stay down, don’t get up, that you’re worthless, pathetic, a disgrace.

i try to feel more

even failure gets tired

and stops answering