In my own way
Can't say how many times
I sit in the second bedroom/office and
wonder why I cannot write.
It's the desk. Not the right height.
It's the chair. I need a new chair
It's the paper. The notebook isn't doing it for me.
It's the cleaning. Look at the dust on the file cabinet.
It's this and it's that...again.
I stall and there I am. In my own way.
Waiting for some kind of mood to move
me, crying desperation or busting with anger,
to write down all those yummy feelings, thoughts.
I stall and there I am. Looking at the desk,
file folders on right side and books on the left,
unchanged from the day before and the day before that...
and nothing written, wishing the pages away.
I worry the clothes wont get washed,
the groceries won't get bought, or
the damn apartment won't get cleaned.
I worry I will not write again
(we have all told ourselves that one).
and here I am,