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I wonder whether I unconsciously
hold my breath while I write,
or whether my body takes the metaphor
that words are the air I breathe
much too literally.
A poem is like a sigh.
It comes down to denial, doesn’t it?
The denial that there’s no one else
on the other side of this page,
listening to my rambling on.
Because in the end
all time is wasted.
And we’ve just gotta learn
how to deal with that.
There is something so comforting
in flipping a page,
something so rewarding
in wasted ink, so
vaguely promising in filling
a notebook with seemingly
The notebook glides smoothly under
the pen rather than vice versa.
Just like you never move but
suddenly you’re in another place
Tonight feels like that.
The day the blank pages stare at me
rather than regard me curiously
is the day my daydream
becomes a nightmare.
Does the clock tick towards it,
or in spite of it, I wonder?
When I feel like writing…
There are no words, there is no
meaning, there is no
time, there is only
pen against paper,
a scratch to an itch,
a numbing simulus;
stuffy, overly warm air.
I was in the middle of writing
my troubles away,
but then I found myself
in the middle of something
a lot less romantic: