The Making of Work

Tic, tic, tic

Tappety tap tap tap

Crunch

Thunk.

Churning out concepts

Thunking out thoughts

Plunking them onto the page

Beautiful

Raw

Forming

Fleshed out

The words form themselves

As they’re wrenched from the mind

After they’re scribbled

Scratched

Once they emerge

And mold themselves

They mold the mind

That first formed them

Make it question

All it’s known

All it’s done

All it’s made

After a rough few days...

"Gastritis"

My knees pull upwards

My shoulders hunch forward

And my chin drops to my chest

My arms cross each other

Wrapped around my middle

And my fingers grasp the seams

Of my shirt

My stomach is being wrung out

Like a wet rag

But the moisture escapes

Through my eyes

And down my cheeks

Each wave of pain

Constricts my body further

Until it all ebbs slowly away

And I can finally unravel

Phobia

The creature appears

And my heart begins to race.

My breath catches, deep in my chest.

My stomach twists and flips

Tying itself into knots

As it continues to roll.

My palms tingle and sweat

And my hands begin to tremble.

My legs feel liquefied

But are solidly anchored in place.

Suddenly the squirrel scampers away

And my body returns to me.

Yep, I have a squirrel phobia.  

On Unrequited Love

"Unsent"

I’m writing you again, my dear,

Letter eight hundred and sixty-four.

I know you won’t reply.

But none the less, I’m writing.

The same old words fill up the page:

“I love you”

“You’re beautiful”

“Please be mine forever”

All the same declarations

All the same adorations

All the same exhortations

All the same silence in response

Not that I blame you, darling

I couldn’t possibly do that

You are lovely and sweet

And everything that is kind

No, the fault is entirely mine

It’s truly not you, it’s me

I cast the blame upon my mirror

And the woeful image it shows me

The blame also lies in the drawer of my desk

Kept shamefully under lock and key

So I place this letter in that drawer

With the other eight hundred and sixty-three