I'm getting pretty good at staring down the blank screen
with its blinking black line
trying to curse the creativity out of me,
or the notebook page
waiting to be filled with whatever's swirling around my head that day.

The writing is definitely still hard some days,
don't get me wrong.
That's not what I'm saying.
I'm just no longer as intimidated by the wordless abyss
that looms ahead of me
presenting itself to me each night
as I prepare to write my daily poem.

It's fickle,
a glimmering misrepresentation of wealth.
It's the pit in my stomach,
that burns and twists,
carving savage beats from my heart,
at the end of every month.

In horror, I watch it flee me.
My bank account draining little by little,
taking peace of mind with it,
a tinkling laughter following behind.

It may appear silver and green,
but it's true color,
is the crimson that it's spilled from the unnumbered left forgotten.
It tears the world apart around us.

All I see day after day are these same white walls,
Or I escape from that room for a mere moment.
Then I get to run down the same halls,
Before being caught, dragged back, and served punishment.
I get to sit here, feeling my memories fade, while my mind runs wild and fragments.
When will the price for that one mistake finally be paid?
Maybe when my mind finally crumbles and collapses into its final madness-filled descent.
Until that day, I will sit and long for the earth's own lush carpet beneath my feet,
in my home that is lost to me, far from the cold concrete.​

Ragged lines stitch me together,
with mix-matched thread
holding pieces of who I used to be,
together with pieces of others I admire,
all next to things I hope to be.

None of these parts line up,
make sense,
or play well together.
They continuously fight for control over me,
with one gaining my tongue for a brief moment,
before it's ripped away and put into the ownership of another.

I'm constantly torn between who I think I am,
who I was,
and who I wish to be.
Some days, I'm not sure which is which,
​or who has control over me anymore.

Listen,
do you hear?
The chorus of birdsong that chirrups along with you?

Do you see
the trailing shimmer of light
glimmering in your aftermath?

The feeling of ease
and safety that everyone experiences in your presence?

You have a lightness in your step,
a airy lack of worry and care.
As if nothing bad could ever happen to you.

I envy that.
The opposite of anxiety.
Please, teach me your ways.

Fluffy blobs. 3 am, they run
wild. The reason, you ask? Well fun
is what I would guess.
A sporadic chess
game? To make a mess?
Release stress?
​Or there's none.

I love picking apart the sounds that make up words.

Like how the 'p' in puddle
pops like a splash when your foot falls into it,
and the rest of the word sounds
like the dull wetness as it pours into the hole in your shoe.

But then it's different in punch.
The 'p' is the sound as your fist
is thrust through the air.
The word ends with the crunch of a broken tooth.

Strings of light above
cast perfect, gleaming footpaths
upon the water.

I'd like to walk there,
with the water's cool surface
tickleing my feet.

Where would it take me?
Would I wobble above waves?
​Or stroll unhindered?

I love watching the fireflies dance.
Pinpricks through the curtain of darkened night
that flit in unchoreographed beauty,
putting on a silent play of sorts,
for any soul who'd care to watch.

But I cannot stray too close, of course.
I learned that lesson the hard way.
For what careless eyes see as fireflies,
to the open-minded child inside,
they are pixies and faeries gliding through the night
on glimmering gossamer wings
more beautiful than any butterfly.

I lost myself among them,
and I danced for days and weeks,
though it only felt like hours.

As I sit here now,
the memories blur in flashes of light
and kaleidoscope eyes.

Until I am ready to join them once more,
I'll content myself with sitting and watching from afar,
​listening to others call them fireflies.

The still before the storm.
The absence of a single breath.
Like a vacuum ready to devour all creation.
That long moment as you wait for a decision to be made.

The world halts on its axis,
as if to extend this moment even longer.

The results might be monumental or minute,
life-changing or forgettable.
It's unknown to you in your silence.
You can only sit and wait,
for the deliberation to be done.

And whatever the universe has in store
​happens.