Whenever my fingers start typing or scribbling
I never know what's going to happen

They might drag me down through underground caverns lined with swinging blades
or lead me gently through flowered meadows to the sound of fae in flight

They might decide I'm in for a scare and toss a score of ghouls my way
or drop me neck-deep into a memory that's far beyond my sight

Either way, the urge to type and scribble is always nibbling at my mind
and even when I try to plan
I really never know what's going to happen.

The more ink that I pour from my hands
the thicker they feel, heavy with
a lack of motion, aching
with tendons all stretched taut,
drained of energy.
My stories take
What's freely
given
​them.

I dreamed that I wrote last night...
but I woke up to a blank page.

Not sure where the words went
or if they ever appeared at all.

Maybe they faded into the empty text box
stolen away by the techno-fae
to be savored only by them?

Or perhaps the whiteness crashed over them
an avalanche of emptiness
that swallowed them whole.

Either way, I better work harder this time
put up more wards
to guard my words against the dangers
of the world behind my eyelids.

The soothing lullaby of raindrops is beautiful
nature's way of telling you to chill out
and drift off into dreamland...

But when you're trying to type out a daily poem
and all your eyes want to do is droop
because of the white noise provided by the outside world-
it's obnoxious.

How do you resist the urge to sleep
after a day of pounding the pavement and breaking your brain,
when the very weather is against you?

If you know the answer,
let me know.
​I'm still working that one out.

I swear
when I wrote this down it was an awesome idea!
Let me just find it...

Ah, here we go!
When I woke up in the middle of the night
I scribbled it in the corner of my notebook before I forgot it.

And it's, uh-
huh...
Well half of it's illegible squiggles.
The other half...
it says something about a group of renegade dinosaur gummy bears
that free the world from their tyrannical toaster overlords.

...
...
...Yeah, nevermind actually.
We'll just forget I said anything.

Your skin is made of constellations

birthmarks and scars criss-crossing
drawing maps of undiscovered solar systems

laying out the possibilities of future travels
and the leaving behind a guide
that'll leave us back home when we're through.

They're doing it again,
twitching.
Even when I'm beneath my covers,
eyes closed,
dreaming of sleep,
I feel them.

My fingers
dancing along to the tune of my subconscious,
tapping out stories in Morse code
until I pick up a pen or open my laptop.

No matter the time
or the long list of other things I should be doing,
they want to tell tales
and spin rhymes.

The worst part is
that I can't even be angry at them.
Because I could never imagine a world
where I'm not constantly surrounded
with my own stories.

Even as I sleep
my fingers will tip toe across the keys,
bringing worlds of bright color and laughter to life.

They'll be intricate
free of my daily worries or cares
and unbelievable in their artistry.

They'll also be wholly populated by red squiggles
and typos
and very confused grammar.

Because what you write in the middle of the night
doesn't often coincide
with the rules you follow
when you're fully awake
and your inner editor is breathing down your back.

It's okay though.
That's why we edit, right?
It all gets fixed in the end.

One second, exhaustion. I need to
finish this poem. I don't care
how much you want my eyes to
close and my mind to drift
away from where I
am trying to
get some words
on the page.