my writing is a blunt hammer,
a white void pounding
at the keys,
breaking off little plastic
bits of life.
this room’s full of them now,
the debris of dead thoughts,
ancient relics:
dinosaur guts,
fern dust,
fossilized failures.
the sun’s clawing its way
up again,
after all this time.
what a *******.
can you wait
for morning to sink
its teeth into you?
can we
stand five feet apart
and still meet
each other’s eyes
without flinching?
can I write something
that outlives me?
sure,
that’s the easy part.
but writing something
that lives
without me?
now that’s the trick,
isn’t it?
silk canisters and
ribbons marching like fools,
a casket dressed
in bright roses—
pretty little things
for the spigot,
the *****,
the inevitable hole.
wait another year.
or ten.
or twenty.
hell,
spend your whole life
waiting.
go ahead.
see where that gets you.
it doesn’t come.
it never does.
not like that.
never.
stop waiting
for:
someone,
something,
some sign,
some break,
some moment
to crack open
like an egg.
stop praying for it.
stop hoping.
stop wishing.
stop.
the work,
that’s all there is.
live for it.
breathe for it.
burn for it.
die for it.
if you have to believe
in something,
believe in that.
I don’t know
what that thing is for you,
but you do.
and if you don’t,
then maybe it’s time
to stop,
and ask—
what the hell’s stopping you?
