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I want to write, but the words aren't coming. The tips of my fingers itch and tingle and remain unhelpful, moving too quickly across the keyboard and it's times like this when I understand that the BACKSPACE key is really one of my best friends.
And my pen refuses to slide smoothly over paper any more, too busy spurting out the lifeblood of its broken blue arteries to care that I am trying to create. That I'm trying to be more than myself for a moment. And this is a reason so many dreams die before reaching the light.
I traced the edge
and discovered
that my life
could be summarized
on the back of a receipt
that said
NO SALE
PLEASE COME AGAIN.
And my pen refuses to slide smoothly over paper any more, too busy spurting out the lifeblood of its broken blue arteries to care that I am trying to create. That I'm trying to be more than myself for a moment. And this is a reason so many dreams die before reaching the light.
I traced the edge
and discovered
that my life
could be summarized
on the back of a receipt
that said
NO SALE
PLEASE COME AGAIN.
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