Now this is where I tell you I don’t know what I’m doing.
I put the pen to the paper and let it bleed.
Or is it me?
I’m waiting and hesitating for the meaning
of this all to become clear, but
the marks on the page keep drying faster than I can
form the letters.
I thought by now I’d feel like less of an imposter,
but I can’t seem to shed the skin of
a tired winter coat that’s kept me
too comfortable to discard.
The quiet of night offers no solace;
I turn out the light and my past creeps
across the ceiling--
don’t forget me, don’t forget us--
how comfortable is our embrace?
This is where I insist
I don’t know what I’m up against in my head,
but it’s past my bedtime--
my thoughts and the pen are in a steady race
to drive each other to exhaustion.
Writer, editor, and storyteller living in the Twin Cities.