Writing

I’m a blank sheet, a book unwritten,

A sponge, as dry and brittle as the desert,

ready to soak up my surrounding,

no matter what it is, no biases,

I’m so busy now,

Even when I’m not, I’m busy,

Online, scrolling mindlessly, thoughtlessly,

Deeper and deeper into the well,

I used to walk into a theater and it was salvation.

Stage lights and people who filled up a room, 

I was happy to watch them for hours.

I wanted to become some part of that

some part of the instant admiration

Good morning, sunlight like syrup

Touching every dew-streaked blade

Of grass and puddle of drying mud.

Good morning, air that smells of spring,

Air that sounds

if feelings are fluid then so is

the way you run your hands through your hair halfway out of your braid

your breath against my neck since you don't want others to hear

the statue of liberty was brown once, an unprepared American girl blistering in the sun as if our Constitution has torn sharp green papercuts into her skin.