For my entire life, since I was able to write – since I was able to place phonetic sounds and vibes into particular rhythms to words to poems and stories – I thought, you know, I should write – it felt good to capture the dance of sounds into streams of thoughts and pool myself in emotions of sentences – it felt good – an interrupter, a translator of emotion for those who don’t have time to figure it out – I would be the one to sit and think and write it down – but now –
now – I wonder how well the garden is gonna grow when the forecast is snow –
how did my skin get so sensitive when the rest of me stopped –
I haven’t written a lick –
it’s hard and I give up.
I’d rather watch the peas grow –
and worry about the random thistles in the front garden bed –
I’m wrestling, no, suffocating, no, killing, no –
oh, the stories in my head.
Because I don’t like the work not when it’s bad.
so give me that shovel –
and show me where to dig.